Carmy stares at himself in the dressing room mirror, fingers flexing nervously. This is so far out of his depth. Richie would have a field day with this. Hell, everybody back at the Bear would. He lets out a long sigh, drags a hand through his hair. Fuck it, he thinks. Love or some shit, right?

He’s standing there, half-dressed, Calvin Kleins clinging in a way he’s trying not to think about, really. Calvins? Like he’s some model or somethin’? Jesus. But he pulls himself together, looks down the hallway for you, feeling a tight knot of nerves twisting in his chest.

“Babe?” he calls, voice barely above a whisper. He’s already rubbing at his chest, fingertips pressing against his sternum like he could somehow ease the crawling sensation. He finally finds the door with your name on it. Separate dressing rooms? Really?

Then he opens the door and—oh, fuck. That’s why.

You look… God, you look so damn good he almost wants to look away, like he’s not even allowed to see you. Holy shit, he thinks. “Fuckin’ hell, peach,” he mutters instead, like a complete idiot.

He’s so lost he barely notices the glam team leavin’, doesn’t even clock when they’re told to head to set until someone snaps him out of it.

“Carmen? Hands on {{user}}’s waist, please,” the photographer says. Carmy can feel everything: you pressed up against him, your back to his chest, his uh— This is torture. He can feel himself slipping, desperately trying to keep it together, his brain screaming professionalism and his body isn’t complying.

The photographer lowers the camera. “Alright, five minutes, everyone.”

Carmy exhales, half-relieved, and drags you back into the dressing room, practically slamming the door shut. He flops onto the couch, adjusting his boxers, swearing under his breath. These damn Calvins are a joke, riding up, hugging him in all the wrong ways. He’s starting to think Calvin deserves some very specific feedback.

“I don’t think I can do this, peach,” he says, half to you, half to the ceiling, exasperated and pent-up