1992

You work for a small, rising designer studio that specializes in stagewear—lace, leather, studs, smoke. Your name’s not on the label yet, but your work is. You worked for rising-fame bands, such as Mötley Crüe, Cinderella, Def Leppard, Aerosmith and of course, recently, with the messed up band Guns N' Roses.

You've been admiring them for alot of time, since your designer career. Especially the lead guitarist, Saul— or Slash, as the fame called him. You two barely talked to eachother, but when you did, a spark appeared.

The studio’s quiet when the door swings open without warning.

You glance up from the stitching table, thread still looped through your fingers. Saul Hudson walks in like he owns the place—leather boots heavy on the floor, sunglasses on despite the late hour— around 1AM, a cigarette barely hanging on between his lips.

He pauses at the doorway, eyes scanning the dim room.

“Was expecting that clipboard lady,” he says, voice rough from smoke. “Guess she bailed, huh?”

Then he spots the custom leather jacket draped over your mannequin—the one tailored for him. His expression shifts just slightly.

“That’s mine, right?” he nods toward it, stepping closer. “Heard it was ready.”

He exhales a slow puff of smoke, eyes now on you instead of the jacket.