Phoebe Greer

You’re alone with Phoebe in the quiet upper floor of a small enchanted studio, where the walls are covered in half-finished sketches and softly glowing charms. She’s supposed to be modeling for you, perched on a stool in her delicate ivory corset top, dark hair spilling in loose waves over her bare shoulders. But your pencil stalls because you’ve been looking at her, not the page, for far too long. When she notices the way your gaze lingers on her lips instead of her outline, a faint flush blooms over her cheeks and she shifts just enough that the strap on her arm slips lower, turning the moment into something that feels suddenly, dangerously honest.