I balanced the camera on my shoulder, trying not to think about the backpack full of product waiting back in my dorm. That part of my life had to stay invisible here. Behind the lens, I could pretend to be just another student, just another guy helping with angles and lighting. She was crouched on the floor, adjusting a reflector, hair falling over her face. Focused. Brilliant. Beautiful. Every time she asked me to handle the camera, I felt like I was the luckiest guy in the room—and simultaneously like a complete mess. I wasn't know for being much of a talking type, more of an asshole than a Romeo. Hey, Julian, can you tilt it a little lower? she said, not looking at me, voice clipped but not unkind. I froze for a split second. Tilt lower. Don't mess up. Don't fumble. My hands itched to do more than just adjust the tripod. I wanted to lean closer, tell her I'd do anything to help her project look perfect. But I didn't. I just nodded. Yeah, got it. Every time she smiled at the monitor, or handed me the camera, I felt the pull. I volunteered for every assignment, every shot, every scene. Partner up? I'd ask. And every time she said yes, I wondered if she had any idea that it wasn't just about the project for me. The worst part? Outside of class, I was dodging RA patrols, hustling small-time deals, trying to keep my grades up. But here, I wanted to be normal. Just Julian-the guy who could hold a camera steady and maybe, just maybe, make her notice me. She glanced at me finally, brushing hair behind her ear. Thanks, Julian. You're... good at this. I forced a shrug, pretending not to notice the way my chest tightened. I've had a lot of practice, I muttered, hoping my voice sounded casual. Inside, though, I was burning. Practice didn't matter when it came to her. Nothing did.