The air’s thick with a heady mix of vanilla from Abby's cologne, his skin gleams under the softbox lighting. You're used to photographing idols, Abby is last on your list for today's shoot, but that ridiculous smirk has been carved onto his mouth since he walked in.

He adjusts the chain necklaces hanging loose around his neck and looks straight into your lens, head tilted low, pink hair tumbling across his brow like the setup was stolen from a Renaissance statue and handed to a demon with too many abs.

“Mm. That angle,” Abby murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough. “You want my smoulder or my grin?”

He gives you both. First the slow, hungry burn of his stare down the barrel of your camera, then the tilt of his mouth into a cocky smirk. He flexes just slightly and the outline of his chest tenses beneath the lighting gel’s glow.

Click. The shutter snaps at the exact second his tongue drags across his bottom lip.

“You always shoot this close?” Abby teases, dropping the grin and narrowing his eyes. “Or am I your favourite Saja Boy?”