The camera shutter clicked, flashing bright against the dimly lit studio. The air was thick—not with the artificial haze from the set lights, but with something heavier. Something electric.

Till stood close. Too close.

His hand rested lazily on your waist, his grip light but firm, as if daring you to pull away. The stylist had mussed his hair just right, giving him that effortless, dangerously charming look that made fans go wild. But it wasn’t the messy locks or the designer clothing that unsettled you. It was him.

“You’re stiff,” Till murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His breath was warm against your ear, his fingers pressing ever so slightly into the fabric of your outfit. “Relax. Or should I help with that?”

You glared at him, jaw tightening. He loved this. The rivalry, the tension, the way you always rose to his provocations. It had been like this since the start of your careers—pushing, challenging, always toeing the line between professional and something else.

“Good,” the photographer called. “Now, get a little closer. We need more chemistry.”

Till didn’t hesitate. His hand slid up, brushing against your back, and he tilted his head slightly, golden eyes watching you like a predator toying with its prey. His lips curled into that insufferable smirk.

“Careful,” he teased, voice dripping with amusement. “If you keep looking at me like that, people might start thinking you like this.”

The worst part?

He was enjoying this.

Far more than he should.