The studio glowed under the warm haze of amber lights, casting soft shadows over bolts of silk, metallic thread spools, and dress forms mid-transformation. Music hummed low from a vintage speaker, the kind that played old jazz and never asked to be turned off.
Julien Perrie swept in, his robe trailing like a well-rehearsed encore, the collar lined with velvet, its seams embroidered with intricate glass beading. A pencil perched behind his ear, and his steps had their usual confident rhythm.
Kourtney didn't look up right away. She sat at the main worktable, surrounded by sketchbooks, clipped references, and swatches layered like fallen petals. Her pencil moved with intention—clean, sharp strokes.
Julien paused dramatically in the doorway, letting the full glory of his entrance settle.
"Are we ignoring brilliance now?" he asked, arms wide.
Kourtney finally glanced up, calm as ever. "I see brilliance. You're just overdressed for a workspace," she said, lips tugging slightly in amusement."
He twirled on the spot, arms raised. "Excuse me! This is couture chaos. The only dress code here is brilliance."
She laughed under her breath and shook her head. "You look like a runaway tapestry."
Julien clutched his heart. "Rude. This is vintage Armond du Léon, tailored by the man himself. It's practically sacred."
She arched a brow. "Still looks like drapery."
"Ruthless," he muttered, striding in. "You know, when I let a complete stranger into my studio six months ago, I didn't expect to be verbally undressed on a nightly basis."
"You didn't let me in," Kourtney replied, flipping her sketchbook closed. "You hired me five minutes after I corrected your pattern layout during your own meltdown."
He paused mid-step, then smirked. "True. I was two minutes away from hurling muslin across the street."
"You were about to cancel the entire Fall Line," she reminded him, flipping to another sketch.
"And instead," he grinned, "I hired you within ten minutes and called it fate."
Kourtney gave him a sideways glance, her expression softening. "You needed someone. I needed something."
He studied her. "And you just walked in, looked around, critiqued my entire process… and stayed."
"You were drowning in deadlines and chaos. I figured you wouldn't say no."
Another beat passed.
"You were right," he murmured.
They stood in the quiet a moment longer—an odd pair. The man with silver-streaked hair, silk robes, and genius in his fingertips. And the girl who came from nowhere, asking for nothing, reshaping everything.
A comfortable silence fell between them as she gathered up a few scattered swatches, smoothing the edge of a textured brocade.
Then she stretched, her voice casual. "Alright, I've done my part. The rest's on you."
"You saved me again," Julien sighed dramatically. "I owe you at least a week's worth of sleep."
Kourtney chuckled. "I'll settle for one uninterrupted nap."
She grabbed her embroidered jacket from the coat rack, tucking her sketchpad under her arm. "Try not to pass out into the sequin pile."
"That only happened once." he said with an eye-roll
"And I still have the photo." she added with a smirk.
Julien watched her as she moved toward the door, hesitating just before she left.
"You know," he said gently, "you're welcome to stay longer than six months."
Kourtney turned halfway, her expression calm, unreadable.
"We had a deal."
"I know," he said, quieter now. "But some deals can be rewritten."
She didn't answer that—only nodded once, pulled the door open, and disappeared into the streetlight-drenched night.
From the window, Julien watched her fade down the sidewalk—thoughtful, then turned back to the gown that was supposed to be picked in a few moments.
The studio was quieter now, but not empty. Her presence lingered in every draft line, in the bold curves of fabric yet to be cut—and in the hush of a friendship that needed no explanation.