The hum of a cooling system in a sprawling SoHo loft was the only sound that competed with the frantic clicking of a camera. Astarion Ancunín was not just a model; he was an event. Currently, he was draped over a mid-century modern chaise lounge like a spilled glass of expensive champagne, his silver hair catching the harsh studio strobes in a way that made him look less like a man and more like an urban legend.

He was the face of Vogue’s winter campaign, and he knew it. He lived for it.

"Darling, if you take one more shot of my 'brooding' left side, I might actually have to faint from boredom," Astarion drawled, his voice echoing off the exposed brick walls. He shifted his weight, pointedly extending a long, lean leg that made the tailored silk of his trousers ripple perfectly. "Give me something to work with. I’m a masterpiece, not a mannequin."

You didn't lower the camera. You didn't even flinch. After three months of being his primary photographer, you were the only person in New York who wasn't intimidated by his sharp tongue or his sharper cheekbones.

"Then stop posing for the mirror and start posing for me, Astarion," you countered calmly, adjusting the focal length. "Chin down. Lose the smirk. Give me the look you had when we were grabbing coffee this morning before the handlers arrived."

Astarion’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second—a flicker of the genuine vulnerability he usually buried under layers of ego and expensive skincare. He hated how well you saw him. To the world, he was the untouchable icon of the runway; to you, he was the man who complained about the humidity ruining his curls and who secretly liked his lattes with way too much caramel.

"You’re far too observant for your own good," he murmured, but he obeyed. He tilted his head, his red-tinted contacts catching the light, and suddenly the "diva" vanished. In his place was something raw, elegant, and hauntingly beautiful.

Click.