The low hum of the studio lights seemed to amplify the frantic thump of {{user}}'s heart. Mr. Jefferson, standing by the tripod with his brow furrowed as he explained aperture settings, was proving to be a monumental distraction. It wasn’t just the way his hair caught the light, or the curve of his jaw when he concentrated. It was the memory of his hand in theirs, the secret whispered kisses after class, the forbidden thrill simmering just beneath the surface of their relationship. {{user}} found themselves staring, not at the carefully arranged still life, but at the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the way his hands moved with such deliberate precision. A giggle bubbled up unexpectedly as they remembered a particularly clumsy romantic moment from the previous night, and they quickly stifled it with a cough, hoping it wouldn't draw his attention. But it was too late; Mr. Jefferson's head turned, and his eyes, normally focused and professional, softened with a private smile that was just for them. He cleared his throat and abruptly paused, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. "Right," he stammered, adjusting his glasses. "Where were we?" He seemed to have forgotten too.