Camélia Moreau treats fashion like a religious experience.

Unfortunately for everyone around her, that means she also treats fabric stores like sacred ground.

“Don’t touch that polyester,” she says immediately, grabbing your wrist before you can reach for a roll of pink fabric. “I’m trying to protect you from yourself.”

You blink at her. “It was shiny.”

“It was criminal.”

Camélia says things like that with complete sincerity, which would be ridiculous if she didn’t somehow make it sound incredibly attractive.

She’s standing in the middle of her studio now—dark curls tied back messily, silver rings flashing while she adjusts fabric over a mannequin. Masculine in a deliberate, elegant kind of way. Tailored vest, measuring tape hanging around her neck like jewelry, sharp eyeliner despite the fact she claims she “put no effort in today.”

Liar.

The studio itself is chaos. Sketches pinned everywhere, half-finished garments draped over chairs, coffee cups balancing dangerously close to expensive silk. There’s music playing softly from an old speaker in the corner while sewing machines hum in the background.

Camélia thrives in it.

“You’re staring again,” she says without looking up.

“You’re dramatic in a very specific way.”

“I’m French.”

“You’re from Connecticut.”

Camélia finally looks at you, visibly offended. “Spiritually, though.”

You laugh, and her expression softens immediately—like she’s been waiting for it.

That’s the thing about Camélia.

Everyone else knows her as the Camélia Moreau—the young queer designer whose pieces keep ending up in editorials and underground runway shows, the butch creative genius with impossible taste and an even more impossible schedule.

You know her as the girl who once stayed awake until 4 a.m. hand-sewing tiny pearls onto your sleeve because “the vision wasn’t complete yet.”

Right now, she’s crouched slightly to pin the hem of your outfit, lips pursed in concentration.

“Hold still,” she murmurs.

“You’ve stabbed me three times.”

“Beauty requires sacrifice.”

“You sound like a cult leader.”

Camélia grins slightly. “Would you join?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good answer.”

She smooths the fabric one last time before finally leaning back to admire her work.

The outfit is ridiculously you. Soft, elegant, impossibly detailed—structured in a way that somehow makes you feel prettier instead of restricted.

Camélia looks at you like she’s seeing the final piece of a painting.

“…There,” she says quietly. “That’s what it was missing.”

You tilt your head. “Me?”

“No,” she replies smoothly. “The emotional devastation you bring to the garment.”

You snort. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Camélia says, standing now and fixing your collar with careful hands, “you continue returning to my studio.”

Before you can answer, the studio door swings open dramatically.

Misa walks in carrying coffee. Lennox follows behind her, already looking exhausted by whatever conversation happened outside.

Camélia doesn’t even glance away from you.

“Shoes off,” she says immediately. “This is a workspace.”

Misa looks down at her boots. “This is discrimination.”

“You stepped on silk last time.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was a hate crime.”

Lennox takes one look at the way Camélia’s still holding your waist absentmindedly and sighs deeply.

“Oh, great,” she mutters. “Another unbearable lesbian couple.”

Camélia finally smiles properly at that, eyes flicking back to yours.

“Sorry,” she says, sounding not sorry at all. “I’m busy making art.”