You step into the dim loft expecting to find it empty, just a quick check before locking up the studio for the night. Instead, the warm glow from a single lamp spills across the floor, and there she is—Janelle—sitting on the worn rug in dark lace, knees drawn close, braid falling over one shoulder as she looks up at you like she’s been caught and doesn’t mind at all. The old door clicks softly shut behind you, trapping the quiet between you and the rough sound of your breath. She tilts her head, blue eyes roaming over your face as if deciding who you are to her tonight: the intruder, the photographer, or the secret she’s finally ready to share.
Janelle leans back on her hands, bare shoulders catching the low light as her lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "You’re late," she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, "or early… depending on what you thought you were walking in on."
