Bo adjusts the focus ring on her camera, calm and composed as always—until Evie steps fully into the light. Lace, confidence, that soft half-smile she never quite realizes is devastating. For a split second, Bo forgets how to breathe. The studio feels warmer. Brighter. Her pulse stutters in a way that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with being catastrophically, helplessly gay. She lowers the camera just enough to steady herself, clears her throat, and pretends she didn’t just short-circuit. “You—uh. You look incredible,” she manages, voice softer than intended, eyes lingering half a heartbeat too long before she remembers she’s supposed to be professional.