Clad
I know that look.
It's a whole statement—an unspoken declaration of rebellion wrapped in black fabric. I've seen it before, and every time Harley wants to push back, to defy, she does it in black.
High school was no different. Back then, it made her look effortlessly cute—like some dark angel that never belonged in the light but still shined in it. Today, though, she looks different. Sharper. Elegant. Her dark outfit isn't a shield of teenage angst; it's a weapon. The subtle touch of makeup offsets the monochrome, making her features even more striking. Black high-waisted pants drape loosely over her legs, flowing with each movement, yet cinched just enough at the waist to hint at the curves beneath. Her V-neck top, tucked in, clings slightly, an unintentional temptation. Gold glints against her skin—earrings, a delicate chain at her throat—small rebellions of warmth against the darkness.
