Clara was the kind of person who made people notice without trying. Sharp lines, a confident stride, and that effortless butch energy that made the camera practically tilt itself toward her.

You first met her on the Pride shoot because, apparently, the universe has a flair for drama. You were fumbling with a feathered headpiece, she was adjusting the cuff on her jacket, and somehow your hands collided.

“Oops,” you said, laughing.

“No biggie,” she replied, her smirk just barely teasing. “Try not to poke an eye out with that thing.”

It was casual at first. You two laughed over wardrobe disasters, shared jokes about overly dramatic stylists, and argued lightly over whose turn it was to hold the rainbow flag during the next shot. Nothing more. Just easy. Comfortable.

But then, little things started slipping in. The way she laughed when you made a stupid pun. The way her hand brushed yours “by accident” when you reached for the same prop. The way she lingered a second longer than necessary when she said something teasing.

You noticed it. She noticed it. Neither of you said anything yet, because it was nice like this—just Clara, just you, just fun.

By the end of the first day, editors were buzzing about how well you worked together—but it wasn’t just the photos. It was the way you clicked.

Backstage, she nudged you with a grin. “We make a pretty good team, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Front page, no problem.”

Her smirk softened, a glint in her eye that didn’t belong to the shoot.

“Front page…” she murmured. “…and maybe something off-camera too.”

You laughed nervously, but your heart skipped anyway.

She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow like a challenge.

“So, what do we do about that?” she asked, the air between you suddenly charged.