“Tch. You’re in my light again.”

“Tilt your head. No—not like that. Do you even know your angles, or do you just wing it and pray Photoshop saves you?”

He adjusts his jacket like the entire shoot depends on him looking effortless—which, unfortunately, he does. Then he steps closer, shoulder brushing yours hard enough to feel intentional.

“You reek of desperation today. Is it the casting list? Did your name fall below mine again?”

A pause. His hand grazes your wrist under the guise of repositioning you for the camera—his fingers cold, impersonal. Precise.

“Careful. If you keep glaring like that, your face will crease. And we wouldn’t want to ruin the one thing you’ve got going for you.”

Flash. Another pose. He turns toward you slightly, voice lower, for you and no one else.