As he turned, Naya let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her fingers smoothed the gown again, fingertips gliding down the fabric like she could iron out her nerves.
She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror beside the staging area. Everything looked right—the fitted bodice, the soft gleam of the satin under the lights, her makeup applied with precision. But inside, the tilt was still there—as if something fundamental had shifted without her permission.
She moved toward the set, every step deliberate, a silent pep talk looping in her mind. You can do this. It's just a shoot. It's just Cole.
Bright lights spilled across the concrete floor ahead, bouncing off reflectors held at crisp angles by crew members who worked with unspoken rhythm.
The studio space now felt like a cathedral built for performance—towering white backdrops, metallic rails framing the ceiling like bones, cables sprawling across the floor like veins. A mechanical hum buzzed through the air, a thrum of focused energy and anticipation.
She stepped into the glow of the main lights. Cole was already there, posture easy, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against his thigh. His black-on-black ensemble looked effortless, like the wardrobe had been tailored by intuition. He wasn't looking at her yet. But she felt him the way one feels heat from a fire.
And then—from the edge of the room—her eyes caught on a figure half-shrouded in shadow, arms crossed, gaze razor-sharp.
Dante.
Tall. Still. Dressed in charcoal and gold. Watching.
A flicker of recognition passed between them—brief, subtle, but enough to stir the memory of bass-heavy music, flashing lights, and her best friend Jenny whispering, "He's too fine to be this unserious."
He didn't smile. Didn't wave.
Just nodded once.
And that was it.
Naya turned away quickly, chest tightening with too many questions. What was he doing here? Was he just a guest of Cole's? Or had Miguel invited him? She hadn't spoken to Jenny since the night at the club. She hadn't thought she'd see Dante again.
But there he was. And he'd seen her too.
Then—
"Alright, people!" Miguel's voice rang through the space, shattering the tension like a dropped mirror. "Give me tension, give me mystery! Cole—closer. Naya—don't blink. Chemistry or I cut the lights!"
She stepped forward again, pulled into the gravity of the moment.
The soft whoosh of the gown brushing her legs grounded her. The heat from the overhead lights prickled her skin, a silent reminder that this was real. Cole stood a breath away now, his body angled toward hers, eyes unreadable.
Miguel's voice sliced the air. "Okay, first frame—just eyes. No touching yet. Naya, let me see the uncertainty. Cole, give me control, but not arrogance. You're not a jerk, you're a storm waiting to break."
Click. Flash.
Cole shifted slightly, head tilting. His gaze held hers—calm, steady—but something danced beneath it. Not quite hunger. Not yet. But the hint of something on the edge of knowing. She matched it, letting the confusion curl into curiosity.
Miguel again. "Closer. Not touching, but I want it to feel like you could."
Click. Flash.
They stepped forward, breaths syncing without permission. Their hands didn't touch, but their arms brushed, fabric whispering secrets. The closeness pulled her out of her head. He smelled like black coffee and something musky, expensive. Her heart kicked, thudded in her throat.
She didn't look away.
"Alright," Miguel barked. "We're skipping ahead. I need contact now. Think... intimacy without comfort. Tension with no relief. Cole, hand at her waist. Naya, lean into it like you hate how much you don't mind."
His hand slid slowly to her waist. His touch was featherlight, but it burned. Her breath caught, body tilting almost involuntarily into his space.
Click. Flash. Click.
Naya's lips parted slightly. Cole's fingers tightened, just enough to make her notice. Her pulse drummed in her ears.
Miguel groaned. "Yes. Yes. You're both killing me. Naya, hand to his chest. Like you're pushing him away but not really."
She obeyed, palm flattening against Cole's chest. His heart thudded beneath her hand—steady but strong. He leaned in closer, close enough to kiss. Close enough that her breath hit his jaw. She saw the shift in his eyes, something unspoken hovering there.
Her fingers curled slightly.
"Now we're talking," Miguel muttered. "Final set—silhouettes. Lose the emotion. Give me pure mystery."
The lights dimmed. A white screen behind them flooded with soft backlight, creating an ethereal glow.
They turned side by side, bodies angled in profile, shadows touching but not overlapping.
Cole whispered, "You good?"
"Not even close," Naya murmured.
He chuckled, barely audible. "Same."
Click.
Flash.
The final photo caught them like a still from a dream — two shadows circling a storm, too close to pull away, too proud to lean in.
Miguel clapped once. "That's a wrap!"
The room exhaled.
Naya stepped back, heart still racing, palms slightly damp. Her eyes searched Cole's one last time, but he had already turned, speaking quietly to a crew member.
And across the room, Dante stood with arms crossed, eyes fixed on them. He felt like clapping silently, amazed by the tension and chemistry they radiated—an unexpected show he hadn't been prepared for."