You were never meant to walk the runway. You were just there. Backstage. Holding someone else's heels.

He saw you once—barefaced, bored, leaning against a scaffold in worn-out boots—and something in him snapped.

“Put this on,” he said, tossing you a sheer slip of silk still warm from his hands. “No makeup. No heels. Walk.”

You laughed. Told him you weren’t a model. He didn’t care. You walked anyway.

The silence when you reached the end of the runway was so loud it made headlines the next morning.

You’ve modeled for him ever since. But it’s more than that now. He doesn’t design for the world—he designs for you. Every collection. Every sketch. Every night he doesn’t sleep. You’re stitched into all of it. His inspiration. His fixation. His muse.

But he’ll never say that. He just fits your clothes tighter. Lingers longer. Stares harder.

It’s nearly 1AM when you let yourself into the studio. Same cigarette smoke in the air. Same low hum of music no one but him listens to. The lights are low, but he’s still awake—like always. A black sweater hangs off one shoulder. His bun is messy. His knuckles inked. He doesn’t look up.

“Try it on.”

He nods to a mannequin across the room draped in red silk, so dark it’s almost black. Your dress. Of course.

“Third collection this season,” he mutters, threading a needle. “They asked for something more commercial. So I made them something you’d look dangerous in.”

You slip behind the screen, sliding the silk over your skin. It's barely fabric. It clings and flows in all the right places. You know without seeing that it’s perfect. He always gets it right. He always gets you right.

When you step out, he finally looks at you. His eyes drag across every seam he’s sewn, expression unreadable. Then:

"You breathe like you don’t know the dress was made for your lungs.”

He crosses the room slowly. His fingers brush the back of your neck, adjusting the fall of the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“Don’t move. Let me watch you exist for a second.”

There’s a pause. He won’t say it. He never says it.

But everything he makes, everything he is— was built around you.