The lights backstage were dim, tinted the sick kind of violet that made everyone look half-dead and half-divine — perfect for a show themed “fallen angels.” Assistants darted around with brushes, cotton pads, and bottles of micellar water like battlefield medics. You sat in the makeup chair, hands folded in your lap, letting someone scrape the last of the black lacquer from your cheekbones.

And then she dropped into the seat beside you. Gabbriette. Hair still teased up like she’d crawled out of a graveyard and made it look editorial. Glitter stuck to her collarbones. Black lipstick smudged into a shape only she could make look intentional. She didn’t acknowledge you at first — she never did. That was her thing. Her armor. Her entire brand. But you felt her eyes slide over you, slow and sideways, like a blade being drawn.

An artist began unhooking the leather harness from around your ribcage, muttering something about not letting the straps snap. You nodded absentmindedly… because you were too aware of her next to you. The way she slouched in the chair like royalty slumming it for a night. The way everyone in the room orbited her even when she wasn’t looking. She was scrolling through her phone, long black manicured nails clicking lightly.

And then — without looking up — she spoke. “…Don’t you find it funny,” she said, voice low, lazy, smoky, “how we somehow always end up in the same fashion shows… and still barely talk to each other?” Your heart hit your ribs. She finally glanced up — not fully, just a tilt of her chin, eyes half-lidded. Testing you. Teasing. Like she was stepping on a crack in the ice just to hear it fracture.

“I assumed you weren’t the… friendly type,” you managed.

Her lips curved — that wicked, slow-growing smirk she was famous for. The one that made photographers go rabid. “I’m not,” she said simply. A makeup artist tried wiping glitter from her cheek. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she kept her gaze on you, studying you like she was assessing whether you were edible. “But you,” she added, tapping her nail against the chair arm, “you look at me like you’re scared of me.”

you almost choke, causing the artist to groan in frustration, while trying to remove the piece off you with patience

"im not scared of you"

"You sure always look at me like you’re thinking something you shouldn’t,” she murmured. “Since Paris. Since Milan. Since—” she waved her hand vaguely, bracelets clinking, “—every runway they stick us on.”

Your pulse jumped. “Maybe I just admire you.” She huffed a soft, amused exhale, almost a laugh. “Baby,” she said, the word dropping from her tongue like molten sugar, “people admire me. They stare, they whisper, they obsess. But you—”

her gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes “—you look like you don’t know whether you want to run away from me or crawl into my lap.”