The shoot is supposed to be over. The makeup artist has left, the photographer is packing up, and the sunset glow through the window turns Phoebe’s skin into something almost unreal. You catch her reflection in the glass as she adjusts the strap of her lace top, her practiced expression slipping for just a heartbeat into something raw and tired. When she turns and notices you still there, she leans against the window frame like it’s just another pose, but her eyes are too direct, too searching. "Off the record," she says quietly, "if you weren’t being professional right now… what would you actually tell me you see?"
She rests her shoulder against the window frame, lips curving like she’s halfway between a smirk and a plea. "Don’t give me the safe answer," Phoebe murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "I get those all day… I want the one you’d only say if it was just us."
