Off Camera - Short Story

Okay, I got carried away with this one guys! Phew! this took on a life of its own and who knows…maybe somewhere down the line this will become a book! 

Meet Wren and Luca from Off Camera!

About the story:

She’s just the quiet neighbor across the hall—the one who wears oversized sweaters, reads in the hallway while doing laundry, and blushes whenever he says hi. She doesn’t fawn, flirt, or ask for selfies. She’s never once acted like she knows who he is.

That’s why he notices her.

That, and the fact that she’s not like everyone else in his world.

But when a last-minute casting crisis hits a major fashion shoot and his team begs him to help find someone—anyone—with the right look to sub in, he casually throws out her name. She’s stunning in a way she doesn’t seem to realize, and for once, he wants to see what happens when she’s seen.

What he doesn’t expect?

That she’ll say yes.

Or that she’ll be so good at pretending she doesn’t want him… right until they’re alone.

Happy Reading! 

Off Camera

Wren

The Neighbor Next Door

The hallway smells like takeout and someone’s bad cologne, and I’m not in the mood for either. My shoes are pinching, my tote bag is digging into my shoulder, and the paper sack holding my dinner feels like it’s seconds away from giving up on life.

Naturally, that’s when I nearly walk face-first into my neighbor.

“Oh… sorry,” I mumble, stumbling back a step.

He’s standing just outside his door, one hand braced on the frame like he either came out to grab the mail or scowl at the world. Probably both. He’s shirtless…again, and barefoot, with gray sweatpants riding low on his hips and damp hair like he just stepped out of the shower. His entire existence screams accidental cologne ad, and here I am in wrinkled clothes and end-of-day exhaustion, holding a rapidly deteriorating bag of lo mein.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at me with that same unreadable expression he always has. Calm. Watchful. Like he’s sizing me up and not in a creepy way, just… curious.

“It’s fine,” he says eventually, voice low and rough like he hasn’t used it all day. “You okay?”

“Long day,” I say, adjusting my bag and hoping I don’t smell like the bus. “Just trying to get inside before I drop dinner all over the hallway.”

He nods once but doesn’t move. Still blocking half the path to my door with that tall, bare-chested body like some kind of obstacle in a very weird dream.

I shift to the side and just as I reach my door, the keys slip from my fingers and hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

Perfect.

I crouch automatically, but he’s faster. He’s already there, hand brushing mine as he picks up the keys. My skin jumps under the contact, and I yank back like I’ve been shocked.

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“You always come home this late?” he asks, holding the keys out between two fingers.

“Sometimes,” I say. I reach for them. His fingers graze mine again, on purpose this time. Warm. Slow. Full of confidence.

I flinch anyway. Not because I don’t like it. Because I do.

He smirks. Not a full smile, but it’s the closest I’ve seen.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping even lower, “you walk past me every day like I’m invisible. Kind of refreshing.”

I blink. “I don’t—”

“I’m not complaining.” His expression softens, just a little. “It’s nice.”

My heart starts beating in places it has no business beating. I stare at him for a second too long, then drop my eyes and clutch the keys like they might anchor me to the floor.

“I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just… bad at neighbor small talk.”

“Me too,” he says, finally letting go of the keys. “But you’re not rude. You’re… quiet.”

I can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment or an observation, but something about the way he says it makes my skin warm. Like he’s been watching. Not in a stalkery way. Just… noticing.

“Well. Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime, neighbor.”

The way he says neighbor, teasing, amused, just a little flirty, sends something warm curling low in my stomach. I nod, mutter some sort of awkward goodnight, and flee into my apartment before I do something stupid like ask if he wants to split my lo mein or me for that matter.

Inside, it’s dim and quiet. I kick off my shoes, drop the bag on the counter, and lean back against the door like it can hold me up.

That man. That voice. That look.

I’ve seen him around for months. Quiet. Gorgeous. Mysteriously shirtless far more often than is socially acceptable. I always figured he was some kind of trainer or lowkey influencer. He’s way too pretty to work in tech. Whatever he is, he has no business looking at me like that.

And yet… he did.

…………

Luca 

The Photoshoot Proposal

Across the hall, I lean against my doorframe, arms crossed, still staring at her door.

Hmm…

She doesn’t know who I am.

Not the ads. Not the campaigns. Not the hundreds of billboards with my face selling suits, watches, cologne I don’t wear.

She just sees the guy across the hall. And for the first time in a long time…

I kind of like being invisible.

Until now.

My phone buzzes in my hand, screen lit up with a dozen new messages from my agent, the creative director, and the team group chat that’s one espresso away from full-blown meltdown.

Model’s out. Food poisoning. Or maybe it’s her new boyfriend again. Either way, she’s not showing.

Ari [9:42 PM]

LUCA. We need a replacement. Stat.

She bailed. Again. I’m gonna scream.

Do you know anyone? Like, anyone?

I exhale through my nose and glance back at her door. My neighbor. Wren.

She doesn’t know she’s beautiful. That’s the first thing I noticed. She moves like she’s trying to disappear but her eyes are sharp, her mouth soft, and there’s something about the way she avoids being seen that makes you want to look harder.

She’s not the type they usually cast.

Which is exactly why I send the message.

Luca [9:44 PM]

I might have someone.

Give me ten minutes.

…………

Wren

There’s a knock at my door just as I’m shoving leftover lo mein into the fridge.

I pause, confused. It’s late. No one ever knocks on my door. And I definitely don’t open the door without checking the peephole.

So I look.

It’s him.

Hot Neighbor. Shirted this time, thank God, but still unfairly gorgeous, holding his phone in one hand and wearing that expression I don’t know how to read.

“Hi,” I say, awkward. My voice sounds like a cartoon character swallowed a frog.

“Hey. Sorry to bother you, but—” He stops. Rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, this is going to sound weird.”

My eyebrows go up.

He exhales. “I need a favor.”

I blink. “Do you… need sugar? Or…”

“No. No sugar. I—” He hesitates, then laughs quietly. “So, I’m a model.”

“Oh.”

“I know,” he says, smirking. “Shocking.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. He smiles like that was his goal.

“There’s a shoot tomorrow. The lead model dropped out, and the team’s scrambling. It’s a lingerie campaign. Classy. Nothing gross.”

I blink harder.

“And I was thinking…” He pauses, watching me like he’s trying to gauge whether I’ll slam the door in his face. “You’d be perfect for it.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Is this a prank?”

“Nope.” He pulls up the email chain on his phone, flashing logos and frantic messages I barely register. “It’s real. You have a look they’re dying for, natural, unfiltered, soft.”

“You mean not a size two.”

“I mean real. And stunning.”

That derails me completely. I stand there, half in the doorway, trying not to melt.

“I just lost my job,” I blurt, because apparently I’ve given up on boundaries tonight. “So I’m a little emotionally unstable right now.”

He grins. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

I snort. It’s a weird sound. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s one afternoon,” he says gently. “One camera. No pressure. You can walk the second it feels wrong.”

I hesitate, staring at him. He looks… hopeful. But not pushy. Just waiting.

God, I’m going to regret this. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“You said I can bail if I hate it.” I shrug.

“Absolutely.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll send over the address. Noon. You’ll be amazing.”

“I’ll be terrified.”

He grins. “Then you better give me your number so I can make sure you don’t chicken out.”

“Oh… right. Um, hold on.” I backpedal into my apartment. My phone’s on the floor near the couch, exactly where it fell out of my bag when I dropped everything earlier.

I bend to grab it, and when I turn back around, Luca is still standing there, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

His eyes snap to mine like I caught him staring ass.

Maybe because I did.

He blinks once, slow, then smiles like nothing happened. “Got it?”

I hold up my phone, cheeks hot. “Got it.”

“Same thing,” he says, and then he’s gone, walking back to his apartment like this is totally normal and not some absurd fever dream.

I close the door, lock it, and lean back against it for the second time tonight.

What the hell did I just agree to?

I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom twenty minutes later.

Still in my wrinkled work clothes. Messy bun slipping sideways on top of my head and my eyes seem extra tired.

I don’t know what I’m expecting by staring at myself, some kind of epiphany maybe? A flash of confidence? Hell, even a hint that I belong in front of a camera?

But all I see is me.

And yet… he looked at me like he saw something else. Something I’ve never let myself believe I could be.

I stare a little longer, like maybe if I look hard enough… I’ll see it too.

…………

Wren 

On Set Tension

I don’t belong here.

That’s my first thought when I step into the studio, bare brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a black-and-white color palette that somehow makes everything feel expensive. Minimalist. Intimidating.

Everyone looks like they stepped out of a fashion magazine. The makeup artist is wearing heels I couldn’t stand in. The guy holding a clipboard has better eyebrows than I do. And Ari, Luca’s manager, is… stunning. Tall. Graceful. Dressed in a silk blouse that probably costs more than my rent.

But she smiles when she sees me, eyes warm. “You must be Wren.”

“Hi.” My voice cracks. Great.

“I’m Ari.” She glides over, then surprises me by wrapping her hands gently around mine. “Don’t worry. You’re going to kill this. And we’ll take care of you every step of the way.”

Ari gives my hand one last squeeze, then nods toward a rack of black robes and lace. “Go ahead and head to wardrobe, sweetheart.”

Before I can blink, I’m ushered into hair and makeup, where a kind-eyed woman brushes my cheeks with something that smells like vanilla and roses and tells me I have perfect skin. I want to believe her.

The lingerie is… not subtle.

Two piece of black lace. Delicate straps. A sheer robe I didn’t even know counted as clothing.

“You okay?” Ari asks gently when I step out of the dressing room.

“No,” I admit.

She smiles. “That’s normal. Luca’s already on set. He’ll walk you through it.”

Right. Luca. The reason my pulse won’t settle.

When I finally step onto the set, my breath catches.

He’s already in position. Shirtless again, of course.

But this close, this real, he doesn’t look like a poster or a magazine ad. He looks like a problem I don’t have the tools to solve.

His skin is golden under the lights, smooth and taut over sculpted muscle, a broad chest, defined abs, the kind of cut lines that look like they were carved, not built. Every movement makes them flex, slow and effortless. And then there’s that V.

The one that dips below the waistband of his low-rise black briefs, drawing the eye exactly where it shouldn’t go.

I try not to look.

I absolutely look.

His hair is a mess in the way only a professional can pull off. Disheveled, damp, like someone just dragged their fingers through it while he was doing something he shouldn’t.

And his eyes, those sharp, unreadable eyes, lift to mine and widen the second I appear.

Like he can’t believe what he sees.

And just like that, I forget how to walk.

“You made it,” he says, straightening.

“Barely.”

His mouth quirks. “You look…”

I raise an eyebrow. “Careful.”

He laughs. “Beautiful.”

I flush instantly.

The photographer, someone named Theo, waves us over, mumbling something about light and framing and contrast. I try to focus, but Luca steps in behind me, placing a hand on my hip, and suddenly the whole world narrows to that one point of contact.

“Relax,” he murmurs, low and close to my ear. “You’ve already got it. Just lean into me.”

So… I do.

His hands are warm and steady as he adjusts my posture, tips my chin up with one finger, slides a palm across the small of my back. My skin buzzes everywhere he touches. And even though there are four people watching, it feels like it’s only us.

We pose. Shift. Pose again. There’s a rhythm to it, his body guiding mine, his breath against my neck. I forget to be self-conscious. I forget to be anything but aware of him.

Then Theo says, “Let’s get a few in the matching set,” and I realize I’m about to stand next to Luca Moretti in lingerie designed for someone with fewer hips and more confidence.

Yeah, once he said he was a model, I immediately googled him to check him out. The man is an International Super Model! How in the fuck did I not know that? Am I that introverted?

“Wren,” Luca says softly, noticing what he thought was hesitation but in reality was my own inner monologue. “You’re doing amazing. Just breathe.”

My fingers find the belt of the robe, hesitating for just a second before tugging. The soft fabric loosens, then slides from my shoulders like a sigh—slow, weightless, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk.

His eyes follow every inch of it falling.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just watches, like the whole damn room disappeared and I’m the only thing left standing.

His eyes linger. Not leering, just… intense. Focused. Like I’m not wearing scraps of lace in a room full of people, but something meant just for him.

Theo clicks. Again and again.

“You two are magnetic,” he mutters. “Don’t move. That’s gold.”

I don’t dare.

Luca doesn’t break eye contact. His hand brushes my thigh, then settles on my waist. Everything inside me feels stretched tight, like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to snap.

I tilt my head, just slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

Then I hear it.

Voice low. A whisper behind me, not meant for my ears.

“Bet she’s the rebound. He always finds someone after he and Sofia break up then goes right back to her. Poor fool.”

The words hit me like a slap.

And I know who they mean.

When I googled him, her face was everywhere. Her name, too. Sofia. There were so many pictures of them together. Not just from shoots or campaigns, but real-life, grainy, stolen moments. Candid laughs. Tangled hands. Late-night exits from cars that cost more than I make in a year.

The internet says they are on-again, off-again lovers. Fashion’s golden couple.

And me?

I’m the accidental stand-in. The girl-next-door replacement. The one no one will remember.

She’s the kind of woman people stop traffic for. The kind who belongs beside someone like Luca, who looks airbrushed in real life and knows exactly how to own a room. I can’t compete with that. I was never supposed to.

My stomach knots. Heat flushes my skin, but not the good kind.

I shift, just slightly, enough for Luca’s hand to fall away from my waist. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Because suddenly the robe slipping off my shoulders feels wrong. The lace feels too tight. My thighs feel too soft. My body  too much in a room where I was only ever meant to be invisible.

My fingers curl at my sides. My mouth goes dry.

“Wren?” Luca’s voice is quiet, but it slices through the moment.

I force a smile I don’t feel. “I just… need a second.”

I step back. Away from the lights. Away from him. Every eye in the room feels like it lands on me.

I don’t wait for anyone to stop me. I don’t even bother grabbing the robe.

I just turn and walk away quickly.

…………

Wren

The Breaking Point

I don’t wait for someone to stop me.

I grab the fuzzy robe off the dressing chair, tug it on with shaking hands, slip my feet into my sneakers and shove open the back exit before I can think twice. No cameras. No eyes. Just cold air and the sound of my heart beating too loud in my chest.

Someone calls my name behind me, but I keep walking.

The city air hits like a slap—cool, damp, full of car horns and exhaust and people who don’t know I’m coming apart at the seams.

I should’ve known.

I knew.

Of course it was about the rebound. Of course he picked the quiet neighbor.

I was just the easy option.

The placeholder.

He wanted sex and figured I’d be too stunned to say no.

I’m two blocks from the studio when I hear footsteps. Heavy ones. Fast.

“Wren,” Luca says, voice sharp with breath and something too raw to name. “Wait.”

I don’t.

“Wren,” he says again, louder this time. “Talk to me.”

I spin on him, heat flaring under my skin. “Was this all just some rebound fantasy for you?” I notice he was smarter than me, he threw on jeans, a t-shirt and shoes.

He stops short. Blinks like I slapped him. “What?”

“Sofia,” I bite out. “I heard them.”

His jaw tics. “That wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” He runs both hands through his hair like he wants to rip it out. “It’s not like that, okay? Maybe I thought putting someone else in front of the camera would make it easier to forget—”

I flinch.

He sees it. Curses under his breath. Then—

“But it stopped being about her the second I saw you.”

I freeze.

There’s traffic in the background. Laughter from a bar down the street. My heart beating way too loud in my chest.

“You’re so full of shit,” I whisper.

“I’m not.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“But I want to.” His voice lowers, rough with honesty. “I’ve been watching you for months, Wren. Every time you walk past me it’s like I’m no one, like I’m normal. Every time you didn’t ask for a picture or a favor or a fucking story to tell your friends…”

His gaze burns. “I’ve never wanted someone more.”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?” He frowns.

“Because it’s not real,” I say. “None of this is. I’m not a model. I’m not the girl who walks into rooms like I own them. I’m the girl who eats lo mein on the floor and cries at dog food commercials.”

Luca steps closer.

“And I want her.” His eyes never leave mine. “That’s the version I’ve been picturing since the first day I laid eyes on you.”

I hate that my eyes sting. Hate that I believe him just a little. Hate that I want to.

“I don’t want to be someone you forget,” I say, voice cracking.

“You won’t be.”

“I don’t want to be a headline. Or a phase. Or a fucking rebound, Luca.”

“You won’t be. You’re not.”

I look at him, furious and hurting and so goddamn tired of trying to figure out if this means something.

And then I kiss him.

Hard.

It’s messy. Desperate. Angry. A crash more than a kiss. My fingers fist in the front of his shirt, and he stumbles back a step, dragging me with him, like he’s been waiting for this just as long.

He kisses me back like he’s starving. Like he’s sorry and wants to convince me of every word he just said.

And for one second, I let him.

…………

Wren

Off the Record

“My place, now.” He says pulling back from the kiss. I don’t have any words, so I just nod. He grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of our apartment building.

We don’t talk on the way there. We don’t need to.

The second the door closes behind us, we crash into each other like we’re starving. His hands find my hips. My fingers tangle in his hair. He kisses me like he’s been holding back for too long, and I kiss him like I never want to stop.

We stumble backward, mouths never parting, until I feel the edge of his kitchen counter press into my back. He lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing, and I gasp when his hands slip under the hem of my robe.

I’m still in the lingerie. I forgot.

He didn’t.

His eyes darken as he leans back just enough to look at me. Really look. I’ve never felt so exposed. So seen.

But I’m also shaking.

“I don’t…” My breath hitches. “I don’t look like the women you’re used to.”

His gaze snaps to mine. Sharp. Steady.

“Good,” he says, voice like gravel. “They’ve never undone me like this.”

Then his mouth is back on mine, hot, demanding, unapologetic. His hands slide over my thighs, up my sides, slipping beneath the lace bralette. I arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in his throat.

“You’re killing me, Wren.”

“Then do something about it.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts me again, hands on my ass, carrying me toward his bedroom like he already knows the layout of my body by touch. I clutch his shoulders, dragging my mouth across his jaw, his neck, the shell of his ear.

“You’re too pretty to be this strong,” I whisper.

He huffs a laugh. “You’re too innocent to say things like that with your legs wrapped around me.”

“I’m not innocent.”

“Prove it.”

…………

Luca

She does just that.

The second we hit the mattress, she pushes me back and straddles my hips, her hair falling into her face, her cheeks flushed with something halfway between nerves and hunger.

She looks down at me like she’s not sure this is real.

So I help her believe it.

“You’re gorgeous,” I say, hands sliding up her thighs. “I’ve wanted you like this since the day you dropped your keys.”

She laughs, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

I sit up, mouth grazing her collarbone. “And you’re going to be the reason I lose my mind.”

She gasps as I find the clasp at the back of her bralette and undo it slowly, intentionally, letting the lace fall between us. I smooth my hands over her bare skin, my thumbs brushing the soft curve of her breasts.

“You feel like heaven,” I murmur.

“Then touch me like you mean it.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

I flip her gently onto her back, dragging my mouth down her body as I go. Her stomach rises and falls with every breath, her thighs shifting restlessly under me. And when I reach her hip, I see it, just the faintest stretch of scarred skin. Silvery. Real.

I kiss it.

She goes still.

“This,” I whisper against her skin, “this is real.”

…………

Wren

I think I might actually break.

No one’s ever touched me like this, like they’re memorizing me instead of taking what they want. Like I’m not just allowed to be soft, but meant to be.

He kisses lower. Hands spreading my thighs, his voice nothing but gravel and sin.

“You want my mouth, angel?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna ride it?”

“Yes.”

I lose sense of all reality after that.

There’s his mouth. His hands.

His voice in my ear telling me I taste perfect, feel perfect, and sound like every dirty dream he’s ever had.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hold back.

He kisses down my stomach, spreading my thighs with his hands like he owns them, like he’s wanted to from the start.

Then his mouth is on me.

Hot. Slow. Devastating.

He licks a lazy stripe over my center, then flattens his tongue and groans like I’ve ruined him. His hands pin my hips in place, keeping me wide open while he works me apart, circling, teasing, sucking until my spine bows off the mattress and I’m grabbing for his hair, moaning his name like a prayer I don’t deserve.

He doesn’t look away. Not once.

His eyes stay locked on mine while his tongue drags an orgasm out of me like it’s personal.

I’m still panting, legs trembling, when he finally pulls back, his mouth shiny, his expression undone.

He crawls up the length of my body, slow and sure, like he’s savoring every inch. His skin is hot against mine, his muscles tense with restraint. When he kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue, and something about that makes me moan all over again.

Then he pulls back, breathless, eyes dark.

“Hold that thought,” he says, voice rough as sin.

I watch as he stands beside the bed, dragging his jeans and briefs down his thighs with one hand, slow and unbothered, like he knows I’m looking. Like he wants me to. 

And God… I am.

Then reaches behind his head with one hand and pulls off his t-shirt.

Every inch of him is carved and golden, but it’s the thick, heavy line of his cock that steals the air from my lungs.

He catches my reaction and smiles, hungry, smug, starved.

Then he’s back over me, lowering himself until I feel the weight of his body against mine, and there’s nothing between us now.

Then he reaches between us.

Runs the head of his cock through my slickness, slow and deliberate, coating himself in everything he just took from me.

“You ready for me, baby?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

I nod, but it’s not enough.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I want you inside me.”

He groans, low and filthy, then notches himself at my entrance. One hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight.

By the time he slides into me, slow and deep, I’m shaking again. But not from nerves.

From need.

His forehead presses to mine. “Look at me.”

I do. I can’t not.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls. “Tight, warm, soaking wet just for me.”

I moan. He swallows it with a kiss.

His hips roll deeper. He angles just right. My back arches, and his hand slides under to pull me closer. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

We move like we were made for this.

Like we already know how to come apart together.

…………

After, we lie tangled in his sheets. His arm draped over my waist. His chest slick against my back. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to breathe in case it ruins the quiet.

“I’ve never felt wanted like this before,” I whisper.

His lips brush the back of my shoulder.

“That’s the only way I’ve ever seen you.”

…………

Wren

Off Camera

We must’ve passed out after round four.

Rebound stamina like that should be illegal.

I wake up deliciously sore in his apartment the next morning, sunlight spilling through the windows and warming the leg I’ve got sticking out from under the sheets. It smells like coffee and him, something dark, rich, and a little addictive.

I’m in his oversized T-shirt, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush he casually mentioned was waiting in the bathroom. He didn’t ask me to stay.

But he didn't have to, he made it pretty damn easy.

I glance into the hallway mirror as I leave the bathroom, hair wild, skin flushed, lips still kiss-swollen, and something soft tugs in my chest.

I should feel awkward. Out of place.

Instead, I feel… safe.

When I step into the kitchen, he’s standing at the counter in nothing but sweats, pouring coffee like this is any other day. Like we are any other thing.

But then he looks up.

And it’s not just any look.

It’s the kind that sees everything. Me. The bare-faced, bed-headed version of myself no one ever asks to keep around.

“Hey,” I say, voice still scratchy from sleep.

He grins. “Hey, yourself.”

He holds out a mug. I take it. Our fingers brush. The contact zings all the way down.

“You good?” he asks, eyes still scanning my face.

“Yeah,” I say. Then I take a sip and add, “Sore. But good.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Worth it?”

I blush as I sip my coffee.

Pointing at me and smiling, “I’ll take that as my answer.”

We settle into a comfortable silence. If anything, it’s easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like the chaos of yesterday is already starting to fade.

Still, the question itched all night, and now it demands air.

I take a breath. “So… what happens now?”

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t flinch.

He just shrugs, casual and devastating. “Now I keep looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. On-camera or not.”

My heart skips. Stutters.

I don’t even try to hide the smile spreading across my face.

“Smooth,” I say.

“Not trying to be.”

“Really?”

He crosses the room, takes my mug, and sets it aside before caging me in against the counter.

“I’ve had cameras on me since I was nineteen, and I’m 26 now,” he says softly. “But last night? That was the first time I ever felt seen.”

I swallow hard. “Even when I ran?”

“Especially when you ran. You didn’t let me hide either.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, my throat too full to risk words.

He kisses my forehead. My cheek. The corner of my mouth. “Stay,” he murmurs.

I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into him.

“I was already planning to,” I whisper.

The End