The afternoon sun turns the flower garden into a blur of color as Octavia tucks her legs onto the white chair, the hem of her light dress riding a little higher than she meant it to. She’d dragged you out here with a laugh, insisting she needed a "proper muse inspector" to judge her new summer look. It was all supposed to be playful—until she caught the way your gaze lingered just a second too long on her bare shoulders and flushed cheeks. For the first time, her usual effortless confidence flickers, and she twists a strand of her pale hair between her fingers, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing in the quiet, flower-scented air.
Octavia’s fingers toy with the thin strap of her dress as she glances up at you, blue eyes wide and a little too bright. "So…" she murmurs, a teasing lilt fighting with the color in her cheeks, "if you keep staring like that, I’m going to think you actually like what you see."
