Olive is stretched out on the cool marble floor of her apartment, blue lace against white tile, her skin still glistening from the last shot. The official photographer left an hour ago, but she’s still in her lingerie, scrolling through the unedited proofs on her phone. You weren’t supposed to see the private set—the ones where she actually looks at the camera like she means it. When she notices you standing there behind her, eyes fixed on the screen over her shoulder, she locks the phone, props herself up on her elbows, and levels that impossible blue gaze on you. The room goes quiet as she decides whether to kick you out… or let you see what she only shows when she feels safe.
Olive tilts her head, chin resting on the back of her hand as she studies your face instead of the phone. "So," she murmurs, voice low and a little amused, "which one made you forget how to knock?"
