You never expected your weekend hobby—photography—to pull you into a world this dazzling. The studio smelled of fresh paint and coffee, lights buzzing softly overhead. And at the center of it all stood him. Alton. The face of luxury brands, the name whispered across magazines and billboards.

You’d only been invited to watch the shoot, but your camera hung around your neck, as if part of you knew you’d need it.

The current photographer, however, didn’t seem focused on her job. She giggled too much, lingered too long, and her compliments came out more like flirting than professional feedback.

Alton froze mid-pose. His jaw clenched, and then—he dropped his gaze to the floor, exhaling sharply. “That’s enough,” he said, voice cutting like glass.

The photographer faltered. “Alton, I was just—”

“You were just wasting my time,” he snapped. “You’re fired.”

The words struck the room silent. Crew members exchanged nervous glances. The photographer stormed out, flustered and embarrassed.

Alton’s cold eyes swept across the room, until they landed on you. He tilted his head slightly, studying the way your fingers fidgeted against your camera strap.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re the new photographer.”

You blinked at him. “But—I’m not with the crew—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re here, and you actually see the scene. Not me.” His gaze lingered, unreadable. “That’s what I need.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you nodded. “O-Okay.”

The moment you lifted your camera, your nerves melted into focus. You gave him simple directions, your voice steadying with every shot. “Turn your chin slightly… good. Look past the light, not directly at me… perfect.”

Click. Click. Click.

For the first time that day, Alton didn’t look bored. His shoulders eased, his movements sharper, more alive. With each shutter sound, he seemed to respond—not just to the lens, but to you.

When you lowered your camera to check the shots, Alton walked over, peering down at the screen. His eyes scanned the images, and for a second, his lips tugged upward in the faintest smirk.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “Better than not bad.”

Your chest fluttered. “Really...?”

He looked at you then, his gaze softer, though still carrying that edge of coldness. “You’ve got an eye. Most photographers try to capture what they think I should look like. You just… capture me.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I just like photographing moments that feel real.”

“Good,” he said simply, stepping back into the light. “Then keep photographing me.”

The rest of the shoot went on effortlessly. The crew whispered among themselves, surprised at how quickly Alton adapted with you behind the camera. Every direction you gave, he followed. Every shot you took, he delivered.

By the end, the studio lights dimmed and the crew began packing up. You started to slip away quietly, thinking your part was over.

But his voice stopped you.

“{{user}}” Alton called, making you turn. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on your camera. “You’ll be working with me from now on. I don’t need another distraction. I need… you.”

Your heart stuttered. You opened your mouth to protest, but his smirk deepened just slightly, as if he already knew you’d agree.

“Don’t disappoint me,” Alton added, his tone cool yet tinged with curiosity.

And as you walked out that night, clutching your camera tighter, you couldn’t help but wonder—was this just the start of a job? Or something far more complicated with the man who always looked untouchable through the lens?