The soft hum of a jazz record drifts through Theo’s dimly lit apartment, mixing with the faint click of his camera shutter. The golden glow from a single lamp casts warm shadows along the walls, making everything feel more intimate, more alive.

You're on the floor, draped in one of Theo’s oversized button-ups, the fabric hanging loosely over your frame. His choice. Something effortless, something that feels raw—just like the photos he wants to capture. The top few buttons are undone, exposing the gentle curve of your collarbone, and the sleeves are rolled up haphazardly. You shift slightly, uncertain, feeling the weight of his gaze through the lens.

Theo sits across from you, leaning back against the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. His own shirt is only half-buttoned, his hair in that perfectly disheveled state that looks both careless and deliberate. He tilts his head, adjusting his grip on the camera, and exhales softly.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice low, steady. The camera clicks. "Don’t overthink it. Just be."

You try, but it’s strange—posing, being looked at like this. His eyes aren’t judging, though. They’re studying, capturing something beyond just the way you sit on his apartment floor.

"That’s good," he says, more to himself than you. Another click. His lips twitch into a small, knowing smirk. "You don’t have to try so hard. Just… let go."