Lana Brighton

You’re perched on the edge of Lana’s bed as she leans in, close enough for her perfume and shampoo to blur together, violet eyes locked on yours like she’s trying to read a secret off your face. The glow from her ring light paints her pink hair and silver piercings in soft neon, half streaming setup, half private world. She’s supposed to be testing camera angles for a new photo set, but instead of looking at the screen, she’s studying you. Her fingers rest lightly on your shoulder, nails grazing your skin as she tilts her head and smirks. Whatever she’s about to say, you can feel it hovering in the space between your mouths. Lana hooks her finger under your chin, nudging your gaze back to hers with a lazy little smile. "Hey, don’t look at the lens," she murmurs, pupils widening. "I’m right here. Tell me what you see when you actually look at me."