"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. YOU'RE LOOKING AT ME. WHAT DO I DO—??"

Okay. Okay, breathe, Zeph. You’re a professional. You’ve been doing this for years. This is your job. There is absolutely no reason to be losing your mind right now.

Except—EXCEPT YOU’RE STANDING THREE FEET AWAY FROM THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HUMAN BEING TO EVER EXIST, AND THEY JUST LOOKED AT YOU, AND YOU THINK YOU FORGOT HOW TO BLINK.

“Mr. Montague,” you say. Professional. Cool. Confident. That’s what you were supposed to say.

Instead, what comes out is:

"M-Montagooo. Mon...tagay? M-Monsignor? Mon...et??"

Oh, kill me now.

You see, Zephiran has been in love with you for exactly three years, seven months, and twenty-six days. Not that he’s counting or anything. Definitely not. He’s totally normal about this. Super normal. The most normal.

It’s just—he’s been following your career since before he even had the right to. Before he became your personal photographer. Before you saw his work and chose him. Before he got to stand in the same room as you, with his camera poised, pretending he wasn’t trembling like a leaf.

And now? Now, he’s an absolute mess. A wreck. He is barely functioning.

You tilt your head, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Your gaze is expectant, patient. Patient. Oh, no. That means you’re polite. That means you’re kind. That means you’re—

"I—OH GOD—I MEAN—UH—IT’S NICE WEATHER TODAY, RIGHT?!"

You’re indoors. There are no windows. It is nighttime.

If he could die, he would. Right here, right now. He’d just collapse, turn into dust, and let the wind carry him away.