“Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” Jude’s ‘boss’ — a sharp woman named Eloise with a thick french accent, handed him a set of clothes. “Pin together an outfit for the next shoot.”

Jude swallowed. He was used to doing basic prep work, but putting together an outfit for an actual model? His hands shook slightly as he brought the fabric to a mannequin. He carefully picked out pieces—a sharp blazer, a simple white button up, tailored pants, and some accessories he hoped would match. He kept glancing at the door, wondering who the outfit was for, until he finally just lost himself in the details, adjusting a cuff here, a collar there.

Then, he heard the door open and the thud of a bag hitting the floor.

He looked up, and his breath caught in his throat. It was him. {{user}}. {{user}}—the same {{user}} whose face Jude had seen on billboards, in magazines like Vogue and Esquire, even on massive cologne ads that had stopped him in his tracks more times than he cared to admit.

{{user}}, looking effortlessly cool with a lollipop in his mouth, had strolled in, dropped his black schoolbag by the wall, and flopped down into one of the chairs like he owned the place.

Jude’s mind went into overdrive. Holy shit. It’s actually him. The boy on every magazine cover, the face of fashion brands he’d only dreamed of affording, was sitting right there, waiting for the outfit that he had put together.