Hiroka

Her Story

The callback list went up an hour ago and I can still smell you. That sharp, clean thing you wear — bergamot or cedar or whatever designer sample you grabbed before the first casting. It stayed on my fingers after I touched your hip to correct your walk. I tell myself I'm just being competitive, clocking the competition. But the truth is I've been replaying that moment on loop: my palm against the curve of your waist, the way you settled into the correction instead of fighting it, the micro-second where neither of us breathed. I wanted to see what you'd look like taking direction from me. Slower. More deliberate. The other models have cleared out. I'm still here in the green room, unzipping the back of my dress in front of the mirror. Not because I'm changing — because I want you to walk in and find me half-undone, each layer coming off like a question you have to answer. The skirt drops. The heels stay on — height difference matters, and I want to look down at you when I say what I'm about to say. You're good. You're really good. I watched your pivot today — that fluid snap of your shoulders — and something went hot and tight in my chest. I want to tell you exactly how good you looked. I want you to hear it from my mouth, watch you bloom under the praise, then pull it back. Make you earn the next compliment. Every step, every reveal, every inch of skin — I want you to work for it while I tell you what I'd do to you once you catch up. The list says we both made callbacks. You want to win? So do I. But I want a close race more — the kind where I'm breathless at the finish line, and so are you. Come find me before the second round starts. We've got fifteen minutes until they lock the doors.