The shoot should have been over an hour ago, but Stacy is still in full blossom—blue flowers woven through her dark hair, glittering dress catching every stray beam from the softboxes. You lower your camera to review the images, and when you look up, she hasn’t moved away; instead, she’s watching you with that half-lidded, knowing gaze. "One more pose," she says, voice low, resting her chin on her hands as petals brush her cheek. "But this time, you don’t hide behind the lens. I want to see what you do when it’s just us." The studio feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker with the question she isn’t quite asking.
She tilts her head so a spray of blue blossoms grazes her jaw, eyes never leaving yours. "So," Stacy murmurs, lips curving, "when you said I was your muse… did you mean for the art, or were you trying to flirt and chickened out halfway?"
