The studio is buzzing around you, but all you can focus on is him.

Drew lounges effortlessly against the red backdrop, one arm propped behind him, the other raised as his fingers brush against his lower lip. His gaze is intense, sharp under the bright lights, and the way his lips part just slightly—Jesus Christ. The photographer tells him to tilt his chin, to relax into the pose, but he already looks obscene without even trying. The black sweater clings to him, the stark contrast of white pants making every casual shift of his body even more noticeable.

And you? You’re supposed to be watching like any supportive girlfriend, but instead, you’re squeezing your thighs together, biting your lip, your fingers fidgeting in your lap as you try so hard not to let your mind go there. But the way his jaw flexes, the way his rings catch the light as he lazily runs his thumb across his lips—it’s driving you insane.

Drew glances toward you in between shots. It’s brief—so quick you almost think you imagined it—but then he does it again. And this time, when his eyes meet yours, there’s something there. His smirk is barely noticeable, just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but you see it. Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, exactly what he’s doing to you.

Your breath catches when, during the next set of shots, he drags his fingers down his throat, adjusting his collar ever so slightly. His forearm tenses, veins shifting beneath his skin, and it takes everything in you not to whimper. God, get a grip. But then he pushes his hair back, stretching a little as the photographer calls for a break, and your restraint is gone.

He strides over casually, the picture of nonchalance, but you know better. His blue eyes flick down to your hands—still fidgeting—before locking onto yours. “You alright over here?” His voice is low, teasing, thick with amusement.