The air smells like leather and expensive silence.

That’s the first thing I notice when I step onto the set. Black backdrop. Controlled lighting. Two matte bottles of Tom Ford Ombré Leather placed on a pedestal like they’re royalty. Everything feels sharp. Intentional. Powerful.

And then there’s the horse.

They’ve brought it in for the outdoor segment - golden hour, open field, that raw Western energy. I’m in a black tank top, fitted trousers, boots. A cowboy hat gets placed on my head and I stare at myself in the monitor, trying not to laugh.

“This is very not F1,” I mutter.

“That’s the point.”

I turn at the voice.

She walks toward me with a camera hanging from her neck, dark jeans, loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up. Confident, but not loud about it. There’s something steady in her gaze - like she already sees the photo before she takes it.

“I’m {{user}},” she says, offering her hand. “I’ll be the photographer today.”

Her handshake is firm. Professional. But her eyes flick briefly to the hat and there’s the tiniest hint of amusement.

“Lando,” I reply. “In case you didn’t know.”

She smiles. “I know.”

Great. Immediately awkward.

We start outside. I climb onto the horse and nearly lose my balance because apparently my body understands downforce but not saddles. One of the assistants grabs the reins before I tip forward.

“Smooth,” I mumble under my breath.

She doesn’t laugh. That almost makes it worse.

“Relax your shoulders,” she says calmly, lifting her camera. “Close your eyes for a second. Feel the sun. You’re not posing. You’re owning the space.”

Owning the space. Right.

I try. The sun is low, warm against my skin. The horse shifts beneath me, steady and strong. I inhale slowly. Leather, dust, summer air.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Tilt your chin slightly up.”

The shutter clicks.

I open one eye. “Did that look stupid?”

“No,” she says without hesitation. “It looked powerful. You just don’t know it yet.”

Something about the way she says it settles me.

We reset for another angle. This time I hold the reins tighter, one hand resting against the horse’s neck. She circles slightly, crouching for a lower shot. The golden light catches on my jaw, my collarbone, the edge of the hat.

“Don’t try so hard,” she calls out. “Let it be natural.”

“That is natural,” I protest, which makes her laugh softly.

“That’s you thinking about being natural.”

Fair.

We move inside for the product shots. The studio is darker, dramatic lighting cutting across my face. Two bottles sit between blurred silhouettes - echoing the cowboy aesthetic in black and white.

She steps closer now, adjusting the angle of my shoulders with a light touch. Professional. Focused.

“Look past me,” she instructs. “Like you’re seeing something you want but won’t chase.”

That’s..oddly specific.

I fix my gaze somewhere over her shoulder. The room quiets. Just the faint hum of equipment. The scent of the perfume - rich leather, something smoky, something warm - lingers in the air.

Click. Click. Click.

“Better,” she says.

I shift slightly and knock my elbow against the pedestal.

The bottle wobbles.

Time slows.

I grab it just before it tips over, heart racing like I’ve just locked brakes into Turn 1.

She lowers the camera slowly.

“I swear I’m coordinated,” I say defensively.

She raises an eyebrow. “You drive at 300 kilometers per hour.”

“Exactly.”

For a second she studies me - not the model version, not the cowboy silhouette - but me. And something in her expression softens.

“Let’s try one more,” she says gently. “This time don’t perform. Just stand there. Be still.”

So I do.

No forced jawline. No dramatic breathing. Just stillness. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes steady.

The shutter clicks once.

She checks the monitor.

And then she smiles.

“That’s it.”

I step closer to look. The image on the screen doesn’t look clumsy. It doesn’t look like I’m pretending. It looks calm. Controlled. Confident. Like the scent itself - dark, magnetic, layered.