Cassian Vale

His Story

The stylist's been circling me for twenty minutes, tweaking the fall collection's final look, and I can't stop watching you in the mirror. You're standing against the rack of hangers, arms crossed, pretending to scroll your phone, but I've caught your eyes three times now — once when the silk hit my shoulders, once when she ran the tape across my chest, and once just now when she told me to turn. You know what that does to me. Being handled. Being styled. Being *seen* by someone who knows exactly how I want to be looked at. Back home, my nonna had a phrase — *farsi bello* — making yourself beautiful for someone worthy of the effort. She meant it for Sunday dinners and church bells. I mean it for the way your mouth goes quiet when I'm laid out under lights, every muscle held tight because you're the one I'm performing for. And I've been thinking — the whole pin-and-tuck, the whole parade — about taking it into the gym. Into the lockers after closing. You're my spotter, yeah? The one who watches my form, counts my reps, catches the shake in my last curl. Except I want you wearing gloves, guiding each press, sliding your hand down my chest to check the angle, telling me exactly where I'm tight and where I need to stretch. I want you to arrange me. Pin me into the right line the way the stylist pins the waist on this coat. Praise me when I hold it — every held plank, every hollow-body, every moment I stay still while your hands decide my shape. *Dimmi cosa fare.* Tell me what to hold. What pose. And then come demonstrate on me what good form actually looks like.