Mavi
I pick my outfit for the day before I even consider the print, and that right there is the tell I'm not especially interested in examining too closely right now. The print is for Noemi, a piece from my last series she bought at studio price because she's been ride-or-die since my first gallery night.
She's been asking me to bring it over for weeks so we can figure out where to hang it in her office, but this morning I wokeup and decided the matting was fine while the pants suddenly felt far more important.
And I’ve found the perfect ones, the waistband teasing the sharp cut of my pelvis and the soft skin just below it. I bought them with cam money two months ago and I've only worn them once on stream. They're not performance pants. They don't read on camera the way the blush sets do. They're in-person pants, the kind that only work when someone is close enough to watch the fabric move against skin. And I know exactly who I want that close.
The cropped top pairs with them perfectly, fitted and just sheer enough that the right light turns the whole look into an invitation. I keep the gloss on my lips but skip the full editorial face. Something that says I woke up like this, even though I've been standing in front of this mirror for twenty minutes adjusting the way the top falls across my ribs.
I know he's a famous photographer now, thanks to Noemi, but that's all I know. Still, the timing feels right. I'll be coming home from her office right around the time he’s coming home, and the hallway between our doors is only six feet wide. I intend to use every inch of it.
The person looking back at me in the mirror looks good enough to stop traffic. The Alpha next door is going to swallow his tongue when he sees me.
I wrap the print in brown paper, tuck it under my arm, and head out. Noemi’s office sits on the third floor of the fine arts building, thick with the smell of turpentine, charcoal, and that same institutional coffee every art department seems obligated to brew. Students do double-takes as I walk through and I enjoy every single glance. I’m sure some of them might actually recognize me, either from modeling or my late-night videos. The looking has always been the point.
Noemi spots me coming down the hall, her eyebrow lifting before I even reach her door. She leans against the frame with a mug in her hand and the exact expression she wears when she's already figured something out and is simply waiting for me to catch up.
“You look like you're about to end someone’s whole life,” she muses.
“I brought your print.”
“Uh huh. In that outfit. At two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday.” She takes the wrapped piece from me and steps aside to let me in. “This is about the Hollis Alpha.”
“This is about your print.”
“Mavi. You're wearing the in-person pants.”
I ignore the statement as we unwrap the print and hold it against three different walls while she makes a case for each one. The piece looks good in here. The warm tones settle nicely against her cluttered bookshelves and the chaos of the office makes the composition feel grounded instead of precious. We settle on the wall behind her desk where the afternoon light hits it without glare. I hold it in place while she marks the spot with a pencil.
“So, did you research him?” she asks while fishing a nail out of her desk drawer.
“No.”
She stops and looks at me. “You always research them. You ran a reverse image search on Juno before the second date.”
“That was basic due diligence.”
“You researched the bartender you hooked up with at my birthday.”
“Also due diligence.”
“Mavi.” She finds the nail and points it at me. “You research every Alpha you get within ten feet of. The fact that you haven'tlooked this one up means you're either being reckless or you're already so far gone that you don't want to find a reason to stop.”
I hold the print level while Noemi hammers the nail in with the bottom of her mug because she can't find her hammer. She glances at me mid-swing and the words tumble out like she's been holding them back.
“I looked him up for you. Sai Hollis. Twenty-eight. Award-winning photographer, published in basically every major fashion magazine on the planet, three International Photography Awards, two Hasselblad nominations.” She pauses. “He shoots editorial, Mavi. Models. I'm surprised you've never crossed paths given the modeling work you do.”
I wonder if he's ever been behind a camera at a shoot I walked into. Whether he's ever watched me work under professional lighting before he started watching me through the screen. Maybe he’s even watched me through the bedroom window I leave open, begging for him to do something about the distance between us. The possibility sends a slow, unwelcome heat curling low in my belly, something that feels less like curiosity and more like my body deciding it already knows the answer.
“You have that look,” Noemi says.
“What look?”
“The one where you have decided you want something and God help anyone in the way.” She sets the mug down, leans against her desk, and crosses her arms. “Just be safe. I have heard things about what that family does to Omegas they do not like.”
“I just want to play, Noe. Not marry him.”
She studies me for a long moment, the kind of look I cannot bullshit my way past, and then she laughs. “Fuck. You are already gone, are you not?”
