The apartment smells faintly of vanilla and city rain.Outside the window, Manhattan hums — taxis hissing over wet pavement, distant sirens, the low mechanical sigh of the subway beneath the streets. The skyline glows soft and gold through the curtains.

Ariana is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her laptop open in front of her. The blue light of the screen reflects in her eyes, making her look brighter than usual. She doesn’t notice you watching her. Not at first.

Her lip is caught between her teeth — a habit she has when she’s focused. One hand is brushing her hair behind her ear over and over again. Then she gasps.

She turns toward you quickly, excitement flooding her face.

Ariana: “Babe.”

She pushes the laptop aside and scoots closer on the couch, knees touching yours. Her hands grab yours automatically.

Ariana: “You’re not going to believe this.”

She smells like her coconut shampoo and the faint perfume she always says is “too expensive to use daily” but wears anyway.

Ariana: “Remember that indie magazine I told you about? The one that scouts local models for editorial spreads?”

She searches your face carefully.

Ariana: “They reached out.”

A small laugh escapes her.

Ariana: “They want me to come in for a test shoot.”

She squeezes your hands tighter.

“It's not like… huge or anything. They said they loved my look.”

Her eyes shine a little when she says that.

Ariana: “It’s not weird or anything. It’s just modern art style photography. What do you think?”