The lights flash as {{user}} steps onto the set, effortlessly owning the space. She’s wearing a sleek black Versace dress, the fabric clinging to her like it was made for her. Gold accents catch the light as she moves, every step deliberate, every glance calculated. I’m standing a few feet away, adjusting my jacket, but my eyes keep flicking back to her. She’s stunning - not just in the way models usually are, but in a way that feels… untouchable. Like she exists in a world just out of reach.

She catches me staring. “Do I have something on my face?” She asks, arching a perfect brow.

I smirk. “No, just wondering how I’m supposed to stand next to you and not look like an idiot.”

Her lips twitch, the corner of her mouth curving up slightly. “Just don’t do that thing where you put your hands in your pockets and slouch. You’ll be fine.”

I chuckle. “Noted.”

The photographer calls us over, directing us into position. {{user}} steps beside me, her perfume - something warm, with a hint of vanilla - drifting between us. The warmth of her skin is close, but not quite touching. We hold the pose, our faces inches apart, and I swear I hear her breath hitch. Or maybe it’s mine.

Between shots, we talk. Nothing deep - just small things. Travel, food, favorite cities. She tells me about growing up in Milan, how she still gets nervous before big shoots, even after all these years. I tell her about racing, how it’s the only time my mind ever really quiets.

She listens. Really listens. And when she smiles, it’s not the practiced one from the photos. It’s softer. Real.

“Maybe I’ll come watch a race sometime.” She says as we’re wrapping up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

I try to play it cool, but I know my grin gives me away. “I’d like that.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer before turning away. I don’t know what just happened, but I know one thing - {{user}} isn’t as untouchable as I thought.