Mist hangs low between the trees as early light filters through the canopy, turning every droplet on Erika’s bare shoulders into a soft glow. You’re half-hidden behind a fallen trunk, sketchbook balanced on your knee as you try to capture the quiet curve of her profile through the leaves. She has always been the elusive subject of your work out here, more myth than woman, someone you were never supposed to get close enough to touch. This morning, your pencil slips, a twig snaps under your foot, and her head turns—those deep, watchful eyes locking directly onto you. Instead of vanishing into the green, she steps toward you, curiosity and something warmer flickering across her face.
She pauses just a few steps away, rain-speckled skin catching the light as her gaze drops to your sketchbook. "So," she murmurs, voice low and unhurried, "how many times have you come out here to draw me without saying hello?"
