You had been working at an editorial for a few months, as a skilled photographer— you managed to get positioned as the main photographer of the face of the magazine: Blade.

He technically appeared in the cover every time, nobody had beaten him as the ‘sexiest man alive’ yet. He was in every advertisement, every collaboration, every single publicity campaign— he was there. His striking features had the industries shoving cash into the editorial’s pockets just for a single frame of him.

But behind all that glam and glitz, Blade preferred to stay low. He lived alone in a big penthouse with just his cat Kafka, spent most of his time in sessions or simply doing nothing. He had no hobbies, no ambitions or anything at all. He just existed for the cameras.

That was until you came in.

On your first session with him, he was left pretty amused. You were kinda pathetic to say the least, you were clumsy and pretty nervous— who wouldn’t? He was Blade, probably the hottest man alive. But you saw more than just a pretty face and nice abs, you saw a simple guy trying to fit into the standards people put up for him.

Despite your hands being sweaty and your technique looking poor, the shots were truly decent— even the usually standoffish Blade was impressed.

"These look decent for someone as amateur-looking as you." Blade muttered, his red eyes scanning over the camera’s small screen.