Chapter 13: The Fitness Ad Campaign

Earlier today, Dylan had texted me. He was inviting me to his fitness shoot; some campaign with a protein brand that apparently needed a hot personal trainer to sell tubs of vanilla-flavored muscle dust.

I stared at the message for maybe two minutes. Tops.

Then I replied:

Sure. I’ll be there.

I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t even let myself think. Because if I had, I might’ve remembered how Elliot kissed me last night. How he held me after. How he called me mon amour and meant it.

But I didn’t think about any of that.

I just showered, got dressed, and took a train to the studio Dylan had pinned on Google Maps. It was tucked away in a side street off Canal Saint-Martin, one of those hidden industrial buildings turned creative spaces. High ceilings, poured concrete floors, white walls, and filtered light that made everything and everyone look more expensive than they were.

I walked in, trying to look casual, but the air conditioning hit immediately; crisp, clean, and laced with the scent of eucalyptus and espresso. The kind of place where models came and went like wind.

The studio was cool and sharp, all clean lines and soft light, the kind of place that made everything feel expensive. White walls, concrete floors, and massive windows spilling natural light across the minimalist setup. There were tubs of protein powder stacked like they were art, a few sleek dumbbells near the shoot area, and a ring light humming quietly beside a stool.

And Dylan?

He was across the room talking to someone who looked like the producer ... confident, animated, charming in the way only Dylan could be when he wasn’t trying. He wore black compression shorts that clung to his quads like second skin, and a matching black compression tshirt stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. His body looked carved, like it had been designed specifically to sell whatever this product was.