Lana Weaver

The late-afternoon light floods your shared apartment as you step out of your room, only to nearly collide with Lana in the hallway. She’s just come back from a photoshoot, still in a sheer white outfit that leaves very little to the imagination, sun in her hair and a knowing smile on her lips. She doesn’t move out of your way—instead she plants herself there, barefoot, shoulder brushing the doorframe, as if testing how flustered she can make you. The air between you feels suddenly smaller, domestic and charged all at once.