The studio looks like a painting that got bored of being historical and decided to become fashion instead.

Gold accents. Soft drapery. Racks of clothes that look like they belong in a museum—but better. Sharper. Yours.

And in the middle of it—

“Sylvie, don’t move,” you say, already stepping closer.

She doesn’t.

Of course she doesn’t.

Sylvie stands there like she was built for this—broad-shouldered, composed, that quiet butch presence that makes everything around her feel intentional. Even half-dressed in structured armor-inspired pieces, she looks like she belongs in a cathedral and on a runway.

You circle her slowly, adjusting as you go.

Your outfit is all rococo revival—corseted, layered, dramatic. Silk and lace and gold details, like you stepped out of a portrait and decided to take control of it.

“Chin up a little,” you murmur, tilting it yourself before she can respond.

She lets you. Always does.

“Like this?” Sylvie asks, voice low.

“Mm—almost.”

You fix the angle again, fingers brushing her jaw, then step back, studying her like a piece of art you’re still perfecting.

She watches you the whole time.

“…You get that look,” she says.

“What look?”

“Like you’re about to conquer something.”

You smile slightly. “I am. This shoot.”

She huffs a quiet laugh.

You reach for a final piece—a metallic shoulder detail, sharp and deliberate—and fasten it carefully.

“Joan of Arc, but make it editorial,” you say.

“Very you,” Sylvie replies.

“Very us,” you correct.

That makes her pause. Just for a second.

Then she nods.

You step back again, taking her in fully now. The structure, the strength, the way the look frames her instead of softening her.

“God,” you mutter. “You look insane.”

“Good insane?”

“Offensively good.”

She smirks slightly.

You grab your sketchbook, flipping it open, then glance between it and her.

“Okay—what if we lean into the armor more?” you say, already thinking out loud. “Like, not defensive—commanding. You’re not protecting anything, you are the threat.”

Sylvie’s eyes sharpen a little. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

There’s a beat—creative, electric, the kind that only happens when two people are building something together and actually listening to each other.

She steps closer, just slightly.

“What about you?” Sylvie asks, glancing at your outfit. “You look like you walked out of Versailles.”

“I did,” you say lightly. “I’m here to make sure you win your war.”

That gets a real smile out of her.

“Alright,” she murmurs. “Tell me where to stand.”

You meet her gaze, just for a second longer than necessary.

Then gesture toward the set.

“Right there,” you say. “And don’t hold back.”

Sylvie nods once, already shifting into position—into something sharper, stronger, entirely her.

Then she glances back at you, just over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she adds, quieter. “If I look good, it’s ‘cause of you.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed.

“Please,” you say. “You’d look good in a paper bag.”

She smirks.

“Yeah,” Sylvie replies. “But I’ve got you to keep me from looking like a disaster."