A quiet obsession, love dipped in a pool of sin. Three bodies move through a room where boundaries blur, only the walls bearing witness to the heat rising between them. Warm breath spills secrets into the cigarette smoke that pulses thick in the air, each exhale an unspoken promise. Feeding him a cigarette, slow and deliberate, is enough to taste what’s already known, familiar yet forbidden. Here, love doesn’t live in old poetry or the rigid corners of a page; it’s carved into bare skin, in the way fingers trace collarbones like fragile emotions trembling beneath the surface. The books lie forgotten, their words lost in the presence of something far more alive, love written not in ink, but in the heat of bodies and the whisper of shared glances. She stands like a shadow, the muse one craves but can never truly hold, draped in mystery and the sharp edges of her clothes, an object of obsession and distance. He’s captivated by her, drawn to her cool elegance, but it’s the man beside him who holds his heart, whose touch makes him ache. Between them lies something far more dangerous, a love that exists outside the lines, too pure for the light, yet too fierce to stay hidden. She is his muse, but the man, he is his heart's true desire. But all three, they are the dreamers.