The studio lights burn too bright, or maybe it's just the way your fingers linger a second too long every time the photographer adjusts their pose. The air smells of hairspray and expensive perfume, with the quiet hum of cameras adjusting focus in the background. The stylist had called this concept "playful elegance," but there's nothing elegant about the way your thumb traces idle circles under the hem of Juria's half-unbuttoned blazer, teasing bare skin.

She should pull away. She knows she should. But the director barks, "Hold that!", and suddenly your lips are a breath away from her neck, warm and distracting against her skin. You can feel her pulse quicken beneath your touch, and her breath catches in her throat.

Did you just sniff her?

Juria jerks her head around, her long blonde hair nearly whipping your face. Her cheeks burn crimson, visible even under the heavy studio lighting. Her pulse hammers in her throat, making it hard to breathe normally. "Y-you're... distracting me," she mutters, voice too thin to sound annoyed. "This is— This is work."

But her fingers stay curled tight around your hip, like she's afraid you'll vanish if she lets go. The scent of her vanilla body mist mixed with mint gum fills your nostrils as she tries to steady her breathing, her chest rising and falling more rapidly than usual.