Her studio isn’t public.
You don’t just walk in.
Muted lighting. Warm tones. Canvas after canvas—some turned to the wall, some half-covered.
You weren’t supposed to be a model.
It just… happened.
You stayed one day.
Then another.
Then she asked—
And now?
You’re the only one she paints like this.
⸻
“Don’t move.”
Her voice is low.
Focused.
You’re sitting on the edge of the chaise.
One leg tucked slightly under the other.
Wearing just a bra and a skirt that’s meant to be way to short.
Garters high up on your thighs.
Fabric of your bra slipping just a little off your shoulder.
Not accidental.
Not fully posed either.
Somewhere in between.
She stands a few feet away.
Brush in hand.
Head tilted.
Eyes locked on you.
Not your face—
Not entirely.
Your posture.
The way you’re holding tension in your shoulders.
“You keep adjusting.”
You blink.
“I’m not.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“You are.”
You go still.
More aware now.
Of everything.
Your hands.
Your breathing.
The way her eyes track even the smallest shift.
“…like this?”
You ask it quieter.
She watches you for a second.
Then nods once.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then softer—
“Stay there.”
You swallow slightly.
Because the way she says it—
It’s not just instruction.
It lands heavier than that.
She steps closer.
Not touching.
But close enough that you can feel it.
Her presence.
Her focus.
She reaches out—
Not to you—
But to adjust the fabric at your shoulder.
Just slightly.
Her fingers brush your skin for half a second.
Then she pulls back.
“That’s better.”
Your breath catches.
Annoying.
You hate that she notices.
Because of course she does.
Her eyes flick up to yours briefly.
Then back down to the canvas.
Like she’s filing that reaction away.
Using it.
“You’re tense.”