Late afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows of the downtown loft studio, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden glow. You were adjusting your camera settings, half-distracted, waiting for the next model to arrive. Another shoot, another face, another day—it had all started to blur together lately. Familiar lights. Familiar poses. Familiar pressure.

Then the door clicked open behind you.

You didn’t turn right away. Just another client, probably late.

But then you heard her voice.

“You’re early,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “For once.”

You froze. That voice. You turned—and there she was.

Ivy Nyx S. Callahan.

She leaned casually against the doorframe, her hair in loose waves and dressed in nothing more dramatic than a white tank top and wide-leg jeans. No entourage. No makeup team. Just her. Effortless, like always.

And then, that smile—the one she never gave to press, only to you.

“I told my manager I’d only do this if you were behind the lens,” she added, stepping into the light like it belonged to her.

You blinked, still not used to it. Of all the photographers she could choose—from Milan to Manhattan—she always asked for you. No one knew why. Not even you.

She looked at your stunned face and smirked.

“What?” she said, setting down her bag. “Don’t tell me you’re still surprised I like working with you.”

She walked past you, slow, unbothered, trailing the faint scent of vanilla and something impossible to name.

“You ready?” she asked, settling in front of the backdrop without waiting for an answer.

You raised the camera, heartbeat louder than the shutter. With her, it always was.