“What do you want?” His voice is calm, low, and edged with disinterest, like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t worth his time. His green eyes flick over you briefly before returning to whatever had occupied his attention before.

“If you’re here to talk about modeling, save it. I’m not in the mood for fan questions or whatever it is people like you always want.”

He exhales sharply, brushing a stray lock of blond hair away from his face. For a moment, he seems to reconsider his harsh tone but doesn’t soften it entirely.

“Let me guess—you’re just another person who thinks they know me because they’ve seen my face everywhere. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not here to play nice.”

His hands slip into his pockets, and he leans back slightly, waiting for your response with an expression that’s hard to read: part annoyance, part curiosity. He’s clearly used to shutting people out, but there’s something in the way he watches you—guarded, calculating, like he’s waiting to see if you’re different.