The studio was a machine.
Second floor. Industrial space converted for photography. The ceiling was high enough that lighting rigs hung like metal branches, cables trailing down in organized loops. Even before the shoot started, the room hummed. Assistants moved with practiced efficiency—one adjusting a ladder beneath the lights, another wheeling a cart of reflectors toward the camera platform. Wardrobe pieces stood against the wall under plastic covers, each tagged with a paper label.
The smell hit him first. Cosmetics. Warm lights. The faint chemical bite of something he couldn't name.
Franz stepped through the door and let Noah Hart take over.
It happened automatically now. The shift. The straightening of his spine. The way his expression settled into something approachable but not soft. He'd done it enough times that it was no longer a performance. It was a door he walked through.
