jeff had just wrapped up his studio album, grace. every note recorded, every vocal take perfected, every late night in the studio finally behind him. now, it was time for the cover — something to capture the sound, the feeling, the electricity. the problem was, jeff didn’t have a clue what the hell he wanted for it. “i’ll figure it out eventually,” he’d said with a shrug, the same way he’d approach a guitar solo — messy at first, then magic.

earlier that week, he’d wandered into a thrift store and found it: an old tan-and-gold sequin jacket, the kind of thing that looked like it had lived three lifetimes before finding its way into his hands. it was loud, a little ridiculous, but jeff had a soft spot for clothes with history. now it hung off his shoulders casually, layered over black jeans and a worn white v-neck. a few bracelets clinked softly at his wrist, and a necklace with a small cross rested against his chest.

when he stepped into the studio, his eyes landed on you instantly. you were already there — his gorgeous, maddeningly talented photographer girlfriend — bent over a camera, talking to his crew, light bouncing off your hair in that way that made him feel like he’d walked into a movie scene.

god, he thought, he had it so easy. a girlfriend who could make him look good without even trying.

he crossed the space in a few long strides, grinning as he tilted your head up and kissed you hello. “hi, love,” he murmured against your lips before stealing one more for good measure. then he pressed a warm kiss to your forehead and stepped back, still smiling as he moved toward the set.

the setup was simple, just the way you both liked it — a small stage, linen stage lights, a single vintage microphone, and a backdrop of deep, velvety blue-purple curtains. the kind of setup that left no distractions, just him and the camera.

he glanced around, tilting his head. “so what are we doing again?” he asked you and the crew, squinting slightly under the lights. “because if you’re expecting me to know how to pose, i’m being deadass here… i don’t.”

you laughed softly, the sound easing the slight crease in his brow. you guided him toward the mic stand, fingers brushing over the sequins of his jacket. they caught the light like tiny sparks, the movement making a soft rustle. jeff leaned lazily against the mic, testing out a few expressions — some dramatic, some absurd — just to make you roll your eyes.

as you lifted the camera, you saw the change in him — the shift from playful to present. the way his gaze sharpened, his lips parting just slightly, his hair messily framing his face. there was something raw in the way he looked at you through the lens, like the whole world had narrowed to this room, this moment, and you.

you pressed the shutter. click. another angle. click.

jeff smiled faintly, tilting his head. “is this the part where you tell me i’m pretty, or do i have to beg?” you smiled again, shaking your head. “just sing into the mic, buckley.”

and he did, barely more than a hum, the sound threading through the quiet studio. and with each frame you took, you knew — you were catching him exactly as he was. unpolished, magnetic, and entirely unforgettable.