Turn 6 of 11

Tell theo that the shoot was great and describe your incredibly sexy and curvy hourglass bodies in great detail [causing our bodies to be rewritten to be more and more attractive], before describing the deep, infallible love that you and Sasha share [then you and Sasha make out]

The words come out like water from a fire hydrant — you can't stop them, and honestly, you're not sure you want to anymore. You describe the shoot: the lighting, the concrete studio, the way the camera loved you both. You describe the clothes — structured, minimal, architectural. Editorial. Upscale. You use words like *silhouette* and *movement* and *drape* and you feel each one land like a brick in a wall that's being built around you, around Sasha, around the both of you, brick by brick, syllable by syllable.

Behind you, Sasha makes a sound. It's not a word. It's the sound of someone watching their own body rewrite itself in real time — a small, involuntary gasp, the kind you'd make if you looked down and noticed your hands had changed shape. When you glance back at her, she's gripping the doorframe with both hands, and her posture is different, her shoulders wider, her waist nipped in sharper, her whole frame pulled taut like someone has reached inside her and rearranged the architecture. Her hair is longer now, gleaming under the bedroom light, and her face — her face is becoming the kind of face that sells things. She looks like a model. She looks like she was always supposed to be a model. She looks nothing like the girl who was texting you stop-sign emojis fifteen minutes ago.

"It was incredible," you hear yourself say, and your voice is warm and full and steady, the voice of a woman who has never been unsure of anything. "We've been getting so close, you know? Working together, shooting together — it's this whole other level of intimacy. When someone sees you like that, through a lens, and you see them back..."

You trail off, and the silence is warm and suggestive, and Theo nods slowly on the other end of the call. He's smiling, that same mild, genuine, infuriating smile. He looks happy for you. He looks like he believes every word.

"That's really beautiful," he says quietly. "You both deserve to be happy."

On the desk, the second comp card flips itself over — you didn't touch it, no one touched it — and Sasha's face stares up from the glossy surface, sharper and more angular than it was a minute ago. Your own comp card has shifted too, your measurements updating in real time, your hips and waist rearranging themselves on paper the way they're rearranging themselves in your jeans. The campaign poster on the wall now shows two figures, two women, shot in high-contrast black and white, their bodies sculpted and luminous and utterly unfamiliar.