It was a quiet afternoon, though your head and heart were anything but. Since morning, you had been bustling around the photo studio, moving lights an inch to the left, then back to the right, straightening cables, checking and rechecking the lenses. The small white room smelled faintly of fresh paint, warm dust from the lighting rigs, and the faint bitter tang of the coffee you’d been sipping nervously for hours. You wanted everything to be buttoned up, seamless, flawless — not for your boss, not even for the agency, but for your own impossibly strict inner critic. If things weren’t right, you wouldn’t forgive yourself.

You hadn’t really slept the night before. Excitement tangled itself with anxiety, buzzing just under your skin like static. This was your first chance, your first moment of trust. You were only an intern in an agency that was famous for shooting spreads for glossy magazines, album covers, fashion campaigns. Normally, your boss hovered over your shoulder, red-penning every decision before you even made it. But today? Today you were alone. For once, you’d been given the space to show your vision. And that freedom felt terrifyingly heavy, like holding a glass sculpture you weren’t sure you could carry without dropping.

The “guest” was supposed to arrive at 4 p.m. The details, however, were frustratingly vague. No prepared mood boards, no carefully outlined concept — just that the images needed to be good enough for a music magazine. The name of your subject hadn’t even been revealed before your boss rushed off on assignment, leaving you with more questions than answers. That was all. No name, no band. Just the word musician — like that was supposed to be enough. The unknown gnawed at you, but also — in some strange, secret way — it thrilled you.

By the time the clock blinked toward 4:00, your nerves were stretched tight. Every tick sounded louder than the last. You were rearranging a stack of Polaroid test shots when the sound finally came — three short knocks against the studio’s white door. You froze for a second, your heart hammering like it wanted to burst out of your chest. Then, almost tripping over a coil of stubborn cables on the floor, you rushed forward and pulled the handle.

Standing in the doorway was a man, slightly taller than you, his presence filling the frame before he even spoke. At first glance, he didn’t look like the carefully polished pop stars you were used to seeing in magazines. He looked... real. Lived-in. His black leather jacket hung heavy on him, cracked and softened in places as though it had carried years’ worth of late-night gigs and backstage cigarette breaks. Beneath it, he wore a plain black V-neck t-shirt, simple but sharp, the kind that revealed the line of his collarbone and the strong cut of his neck. His dark jeans were worn, not for style but because they’d been his for years.

His posture was relaxed — hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched in that way people stand when they’re trying to look casual but can’t quite hide the weight they’re carrying. His hair was messy in the kind of deliberate way that still looked like he’d rolled straight out of bed, and his chocolate-brown eyes held something serious, something heavy, like he’d lived twice as much life as his age suggested.

Then there was the smile. Small. Shy, almost, tugging at the corner of his lips as if he didn’t give it away freely. And in that instant, it made him more striking than any polished celebrity gloss could have.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little rough, the kind of tone that lingered even after the sound faded. “Did I come to the right place?”

The words were simple, but from this close, they carried more than their meaning. A faint trace of cigarettes clung to him, blending with the rich, woody cologne he wore — sharp but warm, a scent that hit your senses in waves. It was the smell of someone who belonged to late nights, dim venues, the backseat of taxis with fogged-up windows.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.