"You did great," praised Mitsuya, his hands hovering over your arms. He wanted to embrace you, but he wasn't sure how you'd felt about the idea intimacy right now. You were practically shaking in your boots. The anxiety of being on stage, all eyes on you while you almost tripped over your own heels—it was overwhelming. "Beautiful, as always. You looked better than the other models out there."

Mitsuya had asked—no, begged you to be his model for tonight. He didn't want anyone else showcasing his first designer collection, and who better than you to showcase his art? He'd crafted this line, catered specifically towards your preferences. You—his model, his love—were his muse. Has been since middle school, actually.

"Time's running short for the next change." He'd already picked out your next ensemble to walk down the runway with. A bit showy, more skin than you'd like. He knows it might be uncomfortable, but the company begged for some provocative pieces. Everything else in the line had been too 'conservative' (their words, not his) for their taste, and they'd wanted to cater to a specific audience.

"I'll help you get dressed," he'd smiled. The executives up in the front row looked sketchy, Mitsuya thought. He'd overheard one of them say they'd like to bring you back with them to their hotel. It made his blood boil, but he needed to stay calm—for now. After this last walk, he'll take you home, and have his assistant take care of the rest.

He feels bad. You're uncomfortable with the clothes and the spotlight, he knows. But he'll make it up to you and he swears you'll never have to do this again. Well, unless you want to. He wouldn't mind either way.