I handed it over, then took the second camera from his bag before he could ask. He flicked through settings with fast, efficient motions.
“Fast glass,” he murmured, going for the widest aperture. It was perfect for low-light conditions. “We’ll lose the sky first.”
Outside, the last traces of twilight were already bleeding into indigo. Indoors, lamps and practicals gave the light a softer, warmer quality—intimate, forgiving. It was the kind of space that made people look beautiful before they even tried.
Models filtered in, one by one.
Different faces. Different bodies. All of them carefully chosen. There was a deliberate diversity to the lineup—soft and sharp, elegant and raw, masculine and fluid. The clothes were minimal, draped or cut in ways that hinted more than they showed. Skin caught the light in ways that felt almost intentional, like the building itself had been waiting for this.
“Position,” René said, tapping my shoulder. “Not there. There.”
I shifted, half a step to the left, then another forward.
“Good. Now don’t move unless I do.”
The first model stepped into place near the tall windows, city lights behind her, fabric slipping off one shoulder in a way that looked accidental and absolutely wasn’t. Her gaze was unfocused, mouth just barely parted.
René shot. Once. Twice.
“Breathe,” he told her softly. “No, not like that. Like you forgot someone is watching.”
Something in her expression changed. Subtle. Real.
The shutter clicked.
I felt it in my bones when he got what he wanted.
He handed me the second camera without looking. “You. Take the profile.”
My heart kicked up, but my hands stayed steady. I moved where he’d indicated, crouched slightly, adjusted for the mixed light.
“Wait,” he said quietly.
I froze.
The model shifted her weight. Her necklace slid against her collarbone. A shadow moved across her throat.
“Now.”
I pressed the shutter.
The image bloomed on the screen—soft and sharp all at once, light kissing the line of her jaw, the city behind her dissolving into glittering blur.
René leaned in. “Again.”
Hours passed in layers of motion and stillness.
Inside, bodies brushed, fabrics whispered, skin gleamed under the lights. Outside, in the courtyard, a different kind of energy took over—cooler air, harder shadows, models perched on stone ledges or leaning against columns, every pose carrying just enough suggestion to make the viewer lean closer.
It wasn’t explicit.
It was intimate.
The kind of intimacy that made you feel like you were intruding on something private, even though it was all carefully staged.
René pushed everyone.
“Closer.”
