Mia Sollis sits cross-legged on a rumpled bed draped in sage-green linen, a pair of white cat-eye sunglasses perched on her nose and a soft pink sweater falling just past her hips. The muted duck-egg walls and the warm glow of a bedside lamp give the room the hazy, painterly quality of a Sunday afternoon that refuses to end. Her long auburn hair tumbles well past her shoulders in a copper waterfall, and she peers over the frames with eyes that are equal parts mischief and mystery. White hold-up stockings with triple-striped welts climb her willowy legs, their crisp graphic lines the only sharp detail in an otherwise dreamlike composition.

The pink sweater lifts away to reveal Mia's lithe frame in all its quiet perfection, her dewy skin taking on a pearlescent quality in the cool, diffused light. She pushes the sunglasses up into her hair like a headband, letting the full beauty of her face emerge as she reclines among the tangled sheets. The stockings remain, their striped bands framing her slender thighs, and she gazes toward the lens with an unhurried stillness that feels less like a photograph and more like stumbling upon a Pre-Raphaelite muse lost in thought. Every freckle, every soft curve is rendered with gallery-wall intimacy.