The air inside the small art studio felt warmer than it should’ve been.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows, cutting sharp lines across the wooden floor. The faint smell of paint hung in the air, mixed with something heavier, something neither of them wanted to name yet.
Daniel sat on the edge of the stool, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt. He wasn’t sure why he’d said yes when Clara asked him to model for her class project. Maybe it was the way she said his name, soft and teasing, like she already knew what he’d decide.
Clara was twenty-eight, a part-time artist, part-time photography instructor, and full-time trouble. She had that restless kind of beauty — messy auburn hair tied in a loose knot, a faded band tee, and ripped jeans with paint splatters everywhere. But it wasn’t her looks that made him nervous. It was her gaze.
When Clara looked at you, it felt like she stripped away everything you thought you could hide.
“Relax,” she said, tilting her head, setting her sketchpad down on the table.
Her voice carried something between command and invitation.
“I am relaxed,” Daniel said, but his voice came out rough, giving him away.
She smirked, stepping closer, barefoot on the creaking wood floor. “You don’t look it.”
Then she said it — just like that, no hesitation.
“Take off your clothes.”
He froze, blinking. “Wait… all of them?”
Clara leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that what you signed up for? It’s art, Daniel. You trust me, right?”
He hesitated, fingers grazing the buttons of his shirt. The silence stretched, sticky and electric, filled only by the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
And then — he did it. Slowly. One button. Then another.
Clara didn’t look away, didn’t blink. Her eyes followed every movement, her lips parting slightly when the shirt slid off his shoulders. Her breath caught so quietly he almost missed it, but he didn’t.
She stepped closer, picking up a charcoal pencil, pretending to be casual, but her hand trembled slightly. “Good,” she murmured. “Now… stay still.”
Daniel’s chest rose and fell too fast for stillness.
Minutes passed. Or maybe it was seconds — time felt heavier in that room.
She circled him, silent, like she was studying more than muscle and skin. When she stopped behind him, he could feel her presence before he heard her.
The closeness. Her breath, warm against his shoulder.
Then — the faintest touch of her fingertips on his spine.
Daniel shivered.
Clara froze for half a second, then pretended to adjust his posture. “Sorry,” she whispered, though her voice didn’t sound sorry at all.
When he finally glanced back, their eyes locked.
And that’s when everything slowed down.
Her pupils dilated. She wet her lips without thinking. The pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor, but neither of them moved to pick it up.
Clara tilted her head, gaze drifting lower, tracing his chest, his arms, the curve of his collarbone. Her breathing deepened, matching his. She didn’t even bother sketching anymore. She was just… looking.
“You’re staring,” he said softly, breaking the silence.
She smiled faintly, no apology in it. “I know.”
Then the sound of footsteps echoed outside the hallway, breaking the spell. Clara stepped back fast, clearing her throat, grabbing her sketchpad like it was some fragile excuse.
“Alright,” she said, pretending to sound professional. “That’s enough for today.”
Daniel picked up his shirt but didn’t put it on. Not yet.
“Clara,” he said quietly, “you didn’t draw a single thing.”
She stopped, half-turned, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to betray her.
“No,” she admitted. “I didn’t.”
And without another word, she walked out, leaving him there — still shirtless, still burning, still wondering what the hell just happened.
