Ross would never admit how easily his name had ended up attached to this photoshoot.

For a world-renowned actor, it only took a whisper in the right ear—a suggestion framed as inevitability. A name placed beside another, too perfect to ignore. And so here he was, seated on a sleek chair in front of an endless white backdrop, lights humming softly above him.

And then you stepped onto set.

The air changed.

You moved with unhurried confidence, dressed in something soft and deliberate, fabric clinging in a way that felt almost intimate despite the room full of people. When your eyes met his, it was like the rest of the studio dimmed. You smiled—slow, knowing—and Ross felt the familiar pull in his chest, the same smile that had lodged itself into his memory the first time he’d seen it and refused to leave.

The director spoke, explaining the concept, the energy, the mood—but Ross caught none of it. His focus narrowed to the sound of your footsteps as you crossed the set, stopping just beside him. A hand settled on his shoulder, warm and grounding, thumb pressing lightly as if to anchor him there.

The first shutter clicked.

Then another.

Excited murmurs rippled through the crew almost immediately.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you murmured, lips barely moving as you angled your body toward the camera, eyes remaining forward.

Ross let out a soft breath, his smile betraying him. “Are you disappointed?” he replied just as quietly.

Your answer came not in words but in motion. Your fingers slid into his hair, grip firm but careful, tilting his head back just enough to expose his throat. The touch sent a sharp, electric awareness through him—of the cameras, of the closeness, of how easily this could be misread.

“Good. Yes—hold that,” the director called, voice bright with excitement.

You leaned closer, close enough that Ross could feel the heat of you, smell something clean and familiar. Your gaze flicked to his then, unguarded for half a second—something softer slipping through the practiced composure.

“I’m happy to see you, Ross,” you whispered.

The cameras kept clicking. The crew buzzed with approval. But Ross stayed very still, very aware of the hand still tangled in his hair, of how easy it would be to lean closer instead of pulling away.

“Cut,” the director finally said, pleased. “Let’s reset.”

Your hand slipped free—but not before your fingers traced lightly along his jaw, a fleeting touch no one else seemed to notice.

You stepped back, but before you managed to get away he took ahold your wrist.

“Are you busy after this?” he asked quietly.