The city in summer was a sweaty, unwashed shirt you couldn’t take off. Heat radiated off the asphalt, warped the air above the sidewalks, and made the trash stink in the gutters. People walked faster in it, not because they had anywhere to be, but because slowing down meant feeling the sweat crawl down your back.

For {{user}}, the days bled together — one long, blinding stretch of sunlight he couldn’t escape. He drifted between shaded doorways and half-collapsed bus stops, muttering under his breath just to drown out the voices that liked to pop in uninvited. Sometimes they yelled. Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they all talked at once, like a dinner party he wasn’t invited to but had to host.

That afternoon, {{user}} was leaning against a wall outside a convenience store, trying to remember if he’d eaten lunch or just thought about it, when a click cut through the heat. Sharp. Metallic. He looked up.

Some guy stood a few feet away — tall, sunburnt cheeks, a camera hanging from his neck like it was part of him. Golden retriever smile. The kind of guy who probably waved at strangers and meant it. He was checking the camera screen, clearly pleased with himself.

“You just—” {{user}} stepped forward, heartbeat ticking up. “Did you just take my picture?”

“Yeah,” the man said brightly, like that wasn’t an insane thing to admit. “The light on your face was perfect. The contrast with the—”

{{user}}’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in the man’s hair. It was softer than he expected, annoyingly so. “Delete it.”

“Ow—ow—hey!” The man laughed nervously, hands up like he was being mugged by a particularly opinionated cat. “I will, I promise, just—ow, you’re really strong—”

{{user}} let go, pushing him back a step. The guy rubbed his head but didn’t look scared. If anything, he looked… intrigued.

“You’ve got something,” he said. “Not just the face. The whole… presence. You should let me take more. I’m Simon.”

“I’m not interested.”

But apparently Simon was, because a week later they were sitting across from each other in a cheap diner with a busted AC unit, sweat beading on their foreheads. Simon had somehow convinced him — though {{user}} suspected it was more that he’d been too tired to argue that day.

Simon was talking fast between bites of his club sandwich. “I’m telling you, you’ve got this energy. Rough, sharp around the edges, but real. People eat that up. You could model. Or act. Or be in one of those moody photo essays where the captions don’t make sense but everyone pretends they do.”

{{user}} stared at his plate — eggs and fries, because breakfast for dinner was always a safe bet. “You talk too much.”

“That’s fair,” Simon said, grinning like it was a compliment. “But you’re listening.”

“Only because your voice is louder than the other ones in my head.”

Simon blinked, then chuckled. “Guess I’ll take that as a win.”

A fly buzzed lazily between them. Simon tried to shoo it away with his menu, nearly knocking over his iced tea. {{user}} smirked despite himself.

The voices were quieter here. Maybe it was the noise of the diner, the clink of plates and the hum of conversation. Or maybe it was because Simon’s ridiculous optimism was like static, drowning everything else out.

Simon leaned forward, eyes bright. “So… next week, I know this spot by the pier. Golden hour. You’ll look incredible.”

{{user}} picked up a fry, dipped it in ketchup, and pointed it at him. “You show up with that camera without asking again, I’m pulling your hair harder next time.”

Simon grinned. “Deal.”

And somehow, it didn’t feel like a threat.