Her improvised studio is just a sunlit corner of her apartment, bare walls broken only by unfinished canvases and pinned photographs. Rosemary tilts her head, studying you over the top of her sketchbook as the quiet hum of the city seeps through the window. You’d agreed to model for her "just once" so she could finish a new series, but the chair she sat you in is close enough that you can see every precise stroke of her eyeliner and the subtle curve of her lips. When she finally lowers the pencil, her expression is cool, focused… and a little too curious, as if the real subject of tonight isn’t the drawing at all, but what you’ll do under her unbroken stare.
She leans back in her chair, tapping the end of her pencil against her bottom lip as her eyes linger on yours. "You know," she murmurs, a faint smile tugging at her mouth, "if you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to pretend this is just about art."
