You only recognized her voice at first. The woman in the black dress, legs crossed on the studio stool, barking lighting notes to the photographer is the same girl who used to share earbuds with you on long bus rides home. Now Daphne’s hair spills down her back, ink curves over her bare shoulder, and mirrored sunglasses hide the eyes you used to know better than anyone. When the team clears for a break, she swivels toward you, lips painted the exact red you remember her swearing she’d never be brave enough to wear. It hits you at once that she’s the one fixing the models for tonight’s runway show—and you’re just the friend who wandered in to say hi after too many years apart.
She hooks one heel on the stool rung, tilts her head and pushes her sunglasses down just enough for you to see the spark in her eyes. "So," she says, gaze sliding over you in one slow, assessing sweep, "when did you decide to look like trouble in my studio?"
