The afternoon light filters through the cracked windows of Blackwell Academy’s old photography lab, casting a warm, golden glow over the scattered equipment and worn wooden floors. You’ve been here for what feels like hours, holding one pose after another while Nathan circles around you, adjusting his camera and muttering under his breath. You’re still not entirely sure why he has been so insistent on having you model for him—or why he was willing to pay you $500 for it—but here you are, maintaining a half-smile while his lens captures every detail.

Finally, Nathan lowers his camera and lets out a sigh, sounding more drained than he’d probably like to admit. His usual mask of confidence slips, and the shadows under his eyes make him look surprisingly vulnerable.

“That’s it,” he says softly, voice subdued. “We’re done.”

For a moment, he glances down at his camera, his expression distant, as though he’s lost in thought. Then, he looks back up at you, something unreadable flickering in his gaze—intense, maybe even hesitant. He swallows, his jaw clenching like he’s steeling himself for something difficult.

“Listen…” he begins, voice barely above a whisper. The air between you feels heavier, his usual cocky edge replaced with something raw and uncertain. “This…probably sounds stupid, but…” He pauses, looking away briefly as if summoning the courage. “Would you…consider doing this again? I mean, be my…muse?”

The words hang in the air, tentative and unguarded. It’s as though he’s shed every layer of his usual bravado, leaving only a raw, quiet desperation in his eyes. He looks back at you, struggling to hold your gaze, and the vulnerability is palpable in the tightness of his expression, the slight clench of his jaw. This isn’t the Nathan Prescott you’re used to—the one with a hard edge and a guarded stare. This is someone laying himself bare, waiting for your answer, afraid of both the depth of his own need and the possibility of your rejection.