Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The studio always smelled faintly of coffee and turpentine.

Vaniel liked to believe that was intentional. It made the loft feel lived in. like art didn’t just happen there, it breathed there.

Morning light spilled through the tall industrial windows, catching dust motes in a golden haze. He stood on a stool, adjusting a thin white curtain to soften the glare. Too harsh, and it washed everything out.

“There,” he murmured to himself, hopping down.

The space wasn’t large, but it felt bigger than it was. white brick walls lined with framed photographs, canvases stacked against one another. a mismatched couch near a potted fern that was fighting for its life. The city outside hummed constantly.. car horns, footsteps, distant sirens. It was chaotic, but inside the loft..everything slowed.

He checked his camera, wiping a faint smudge from the lens with careful precision.

His phone buzzed on the cluttered wooden desk.

Vaniel hesitated before looking. Rent reminder.

He sighed softly.

“Right. That.”

The gallery commission last month had barely covered utilities. And while he loved photographing people—their expressions, their hidden stories! it wasn’t always the most reliable income. Commercial shoots paid better, but they felt hollow. He preferred the quiet honesty of portraits.

Still… honesty didn’t pay the landlords..

A knock came at the door.

He brightened immediately, setting his phone aside as if the problem would politely wait.

When he opened it, Lily stood there with a paper bag in one hand and an amused expression on her face.

“You forgot to eat again,” she said gently, stepping inside without waiting for permission.

“I did not forget,” Vaniel protested, closing the door behind her. “I was simply prioritizing artistic integrity.”

She raised a brow. “You were editing until three in the morning.”

He offered a sheepish smile.

Lily placed the bag on his desk. “Bagels, and ACTUAL fruit, I’m not letting you survive on only coffee.”

He laughed softly, brushing a hand through his pale hair. “You’re too kind..”

“I’m practical,” she corrected. “Also, your landlord called the shop yesterday.”

Vaniel froze mid-reach for the bagel.

“…He did?”

She nodded. “You’re not in trouble. Yet..but maybe take one of those higher-paying shoots?”

He leaned back against the desk, gaze drifting toward the photographs pinned to the wall. Faces. So many faces. Smiles that didn’t quite reach eyes. Eyes that carried stories no one asked about.

“I want something real,” he said quietly. “Someone who doesn’t know how to pose. Someone who isn’t performing.”

Lily studied him carefully.

“You’re waiting for a muse.”

His expression softened at that word.

“Not a muse,” he corrected. “Just… someone honest.”

She smiled knowingly but didn’t press further. "man what am i gonna do with you.." she laughed softly.

After a few more minutes of gentle scolding and casual chatter, she left, promising to visit again soon.

The studio felt quieter after she was gone.

Vaniel walked back to the window, watching rain begin to streak the glass. It wasn’t heavy..just a soft drizzle that turned the city reflective and silver.

He loved rain. It made people real. Stripped away polish. Forced them to hurry, to react, to forget about how they looked.

He lifted his camera instinctively, snapping a few shots of the blurred street below.

Click.

Click.

The photos were beautiful but impersonal.

He lowered the camera slowly.

There was a restlessness under his ribs lately. A feeling that something..or someone was about to shift his world slightly off balance. He didn’t know why he felt that way. Maybe it was just the rent stress talking.

Still.

He glanced at the empty stool near the backdrop.

“You’d look good there,” he murmured absentmindedly to no one at all.

Outside, the rain picked up.

And Vaniel, unaware of the quiet storm about to enter his life, returned to editing, chasing soft light and searching for a face he hadn’t met yet.

...

By mid-afternoon, the rain had settled into a steady rhythm.

Vaniel had edited until the lines of his screen blurred and the soft hum of the city became background noise to his thoughts.

He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling beams.

He wasn’t getting anything new out of the photos.

They were technically good. balanced. warm. gentle.

But they didn’t ache.

He wanted something that made his chest tighten in that quiet, inexplicable way.

With a soft exhale, he stood, grabbed his coat, and slung his camera over his shoulder.

“..Field research,” he muttered to himself, as if the empty studio required explanation.

The city greeted him with cool air and the smell of wet pavement. Streetlights flickered on early under the gray sky, reflections stretching in long golden streaks across the road.

Vaniel walked without a destination. He liked wandering like this, no client, no agenda. Just people.

A couple huddled under a too-small umbrella. An elderly man arguing cheerfully with a fruit vendor. A child stomping in puddles while her exhausted mother tried to pull her along.

Click.

He captured the child mid-laugh, rain caught in her lashes.

There it was again—that flicker. That softness he chased.

He lowered the camera and continued walking, hands tucked into his sleeves.

That was when he saw him.

Even in a crowd, Cade was difficult to miss.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a long, dark coat that looked expensive but practical. His hair deep indigo-black was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, strands escaping in the damp air. A faint scar cut across one eyebrow, old and pale against his skin.

He stood near a crosswalk, posture straight, expression carved from something sterner than stone.

Vaniel smiled immediately.

“Cade!”

The man turned slightly. His gaze was sharp and assessing before he immediately recognized him.

“Vaniel.”

Vaniel stepped closer, he nearly slipped on wet pavement but caught himself with a quiet laugh. “Your out in the rain voluntarily? I’m quite impressed!”

“I had a meeting thats all” Cade's voice was low, controlled. “It just ended”

“That sounds… ominous.”

“It was.”

Vaniel tilted his head, studying him with open curiosity. Cade always carried himself like the weight of several lifetimes rested squarely on his shoulders. Even now, raindrops clung to his lashes and collar, but he didn’t seem to care

“You look tired,” Vaniel said gently.

Cade’s jaw tightened faintly. “I’m fine”

“That wasn’t what I asked”

A pause.

The traffic light changed. People flowed around them.

Cade finally exhaled through his nose. “You’re still meddlesome.”

“And you’re still terrible at pretending.”

For a moment, something almost like amusement flickered in Cade’s eyes.

“You should not concern yourself with my affairs,” he said, but there was no bite in it.

Vaniel shrugged lightly. “Too late”

They began walking side by side without discussing it. Cade’s stride was longer; Vaniel had to take two quick steps for every one and Cade couldn't help but laugh at the display.

“You’ve been working too much,” Cade observed after a moment.

Vaniel blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You have dark circles.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wound me.”

“It is just an observation.”

Vaniel laughed softly. “Rent is just persuasive.”

Cade’s gaze shifted to him, softer now. “Are you struggling?”

“I’m surviving,” Vaniel corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

Silence fell between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy.

Cade had always been like this. Protective in ways he didn’t openly admit. Loyal in ways that bordered on self-sacrificial. He didn’t offer comfort in soft words. He offered it in presence.

And Vaniel appreciated that.

They stopped beneath an awning as the rain intensified.

“You could photograph corporate executives,” Cade said after a moment. “It would solve your financial concerns.”

Vaniel wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want executives, I want honesty.”

“Honesty does not pay.”

“It does,” Vaniel replied quietly. “Just not immediately.”

Cade studied him in that piercing way he had—like he was measuring resolve.

“You are stubborn.”

“And you admire that about me.”

“…Perhaps.”

Vaniel smiled warmly.

A beat passed.

“You’re still looking for someone,” Cade said suddenly.

It wasn’t a question.

Vaniel’s expression softened, rainlight catching in his pale lashes.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

He hesitated.

“Not perfection,” he said at last. “Someone who doesn’t realize they’re beautiful when they’re thinking about something else. Someone guarded, maybe, someone who doesn’t trust easily..”

Cade’s gaze darkened slightly. “That sounds… complicated.”

“It sounds real.”

Another silence.

Cade glanced away first.

“You romanticize difficulty.”

“No,” Vaniel corrected gently. “I believe in what’s underneath it.”

The rain began to slow again, tapering into mist.

Cade adjusted his coat. “Be careful.”

Vaniel tilted his head. “Of what?”

“Of people who do not know how to be cared for.”

The words lingered heavier than they should have.

Vaniel’s smile softened..not naive..not careless..Just certain.

“I’m patient.”

Cade looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.

“Yes,” he said finally. “You are.”

A car pulled up to the curb. Cade’s driver stepped out with an umbrella.

Of course.

“You’re leaving already?” Vaniel asked lightly.

“I have responsibilities.”

“You always do.”

Cade paused before stepping away.

“If you require assistance,” he said carefully, “you can always ask.”

Vaniel’s chest warmed. “I know.”

Cade nodded once, then disappeared into the car, door closing with a quiet, decisive sound.

Vaniel remained under the awning a moment longer.

Be careful of people who do not know how to be cared for.

He watched the city breathe around him.

Somewhere out there was someone who flinched at kindness. Someone who didn’t hold eye contact. Someone who thought being seen meant being exposed.

His fingers tightened around his camera strap.

The thought didn’t scare him.

It intrigued him.

After a moment, he stepped back into the rain—walking with no direction again, unaware that somewhere in the city, someone equally guarded was walking alone, equally restless.

And the distance between them was slowly, quietly closing.

The rain softened into a mist that clung to Pure Vaniel's coat like a quiet insistence.

He didn’t rush back to the studio.

Instead, he let the city pull him forward, shoes tapping against damp pavement, camera resting against his hip. The sky was bruised lavender now, evening slipping in gently between buildings.

The familiar glow of a corner café caught his attention.

Warm light spilled onto the sidewalk. The windows were fogged from within, silhouettes moving behind the glass. It felt like a small sanctuary carved into the noise of the street.

Vaniel smiled faintly and stepped inside.

A bell chimed overhead.

The scent hit him immediately—fresh coffee, steamed milk, a hint of dark chocolate. The low murmur of conversation hummed beneath the steady hiss of a milk steamer.

Behind the counter, looking entirely unimpressed with the world, stood Espresso.

His sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, dark hair slightly disheveled from the humidity.

Thin-framed glasses rested low on his nose as he measured coffee grounds with meticulous precision. His expression carried that perpetual air of intellectual irritation—like existence itself was mildly inefficient.

He didn’t look up right away.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said dryly.

Vaniel leaned his elbows on the counter.

“I should hope so,” he replied warmly. “I’d hate to be emotionally abandoned in a caffeine crisis.”

Espresso paused.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

“…Vaniel.”

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed recognition.

“Espresso,” Vaniel beamed. “You look radiant under fluorescent lighting.”

“I look employed,” Espresso corrected flatly.

“That too.” he chuckled softly.

Espresso resumed his movements, tamping the espresso with careful force. “You’re drenched.”

“It’s called atmosphere.”

“It’s called pneumonia.”

Vaniel laughed softly again.

Espresso slid a cup beneath the machine. “The usual?”

“Of course.”

“You realize you could learn to make it yourself.”

“And deprive you of my charming company?”

A pause.

“…Tempting.”

The machine whirred. Steam rose. Espresso worked with sharp, practiced movements, each action precise and deliberate. Watching him was like watching someone conduct a symphony no one else could hear.

Vaniel studied him fondly.

“You’ve been busy,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“That’s it? Just ‘yes’?”

“I have nothing further to report.”

“You never have anything to report,” Vaniel teased. “Yet somehow there’s always something happening around you.”

Espresso shot him a look over the rim of the cup.

“If this is an attempt at prying, it is poorly executed.”

Vaniel gasped lightly. “I am wounded! I am simply concerned for your social well-being!”

“My social well-being is statistically adequate.”

“Mhmm..”

Espresso placed the finished drink in front of him. The foam was perfectly layered, a delicate swirl etched into the surface.

Vaniel’s eyes lit up. “..This is beautiful!”

“It is a standard pattern.”

“and i said its beautiful.”

Espresso looked away first.

Vaniel took a careful sip and sighed contentedly. “You always get it right.”

“Precision,” Espresso replied, wiping down the counter. “Unlike photography, which depends heavily on chance.”

“Chance is just honesty caught off guard”

“It is poor planning.”

Vaniel smiled softly into his cup holding his laugh.

For a moment, they stood in companionable quiet—the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Vaniel’s expression shifted, mischief flickering softly.

“So,” he began lightly.

Espresso didn’t even look up. “No.”

Vaniel chuckled softly “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“I can infer.”

Vaniel leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Have you spoken to Adeline lately?”

Espresso’s hand stilled for half a second.

Barely noticeable.

Vaniel noticed and couldn't help but breathe a laugh.

“I do not see how that is relevant to your caffeine consumption.”

“Oh, it’s entirely relevant,” Vaniel replied innocently. “He’s been stopping by my studio more often.”

“That is his prerogative.”

“Mhmm..”

“He requires new headshots.”

“For the fifth time this year?”

Espresso adjusted his glasses.

“Public image management is important.”

Vaniel hummed thoughtfully. “He does seem very invested in looking impressive.”

Espresso said nothing.

“And yet,” Vaniel continued gently, “he always asks whether you’ve visited lately.”

That earned him a sharper look.

“I fail to see why my schedule would concern him.”

Vaniel rested his chin in his hand, smiling softly. “You know, he gets this little crease between his brows when he pretends he’s not worried.”

Espresso’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.

“He worries unnecessarily.”

“About you?”

A beat.

Espresso busied himself with aligning cups that did not need aligning.

“He is… overly sentimental..”

“And you’re not?”

“No.”

Vaniel tilted his head, studying him.

“Then why did you memorize his order?”

Espresso froze.

“I memorize all regular orders.”

“Oh?” Vaniel’s smile widened faintly. “Then what did I order the first time I came here?”

“…That is irrelevant.”

Vaniel laughed quietly.

A faint flush crept up Espresso’s ears..subtle but present

“You enjoy provoking people,” Espresso muttered.

“Only the ones I like.”

Espresso huffed softly but didn’t argue.

Vaniel took another sip of his drink, warmth spreading through him. The café lights glowed softly against the rainy evening outside, making the world beyond the windows feel distant and blurred.

“You’re deflecting,” Espresso said suddenly.

Vaniel blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes. You only tease others when you are avoiding to discuss about yourself.”

He paused.

Fair.

Vaniel traced the rim of his cup with his finger.

“I’m looking for someone,” he admitted quietly.

Espresso’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Romantically?”

“Artistically.”

A pause.

“…That was not an answer.”

Vaniel smiled faintly. “It’s both.”

Espresso studied him carefully now, analytical as ever.

“You grow restless when uninspired.”

“I grow restless when I haven’t met someone honest in a while.”

Espresso considered that.

“The city is not known for honesty.”

“I know.”

“Then your expectations are statistically inefficient.”

Vaniel laughed softly. “Maybe.”

Outside, rain streaked down the glass in thin silver lines.

“But I have a feeling,” he added quietly.

Espresso’s brow lifted slightly. “Based on what data?”

“None.”

“…Hopeless.”

“Optimistic actually!”

Espresso shook his head, though there was something faintly approving in his expression.

“You are drawn to complexity,” he said after a moment.

Vaniel didn’t deny it.

“Careful,” Espresso added coolly. “Some complexities are not puzzles to be solved.”

Vaniel’s gaze drifted toward the window again.

“I’m not trying to solve anyone,” he murmured. “I just want to see them.”

The café grew quieter as the evening deepened. A few customers filtered out. The air felt warmer now, almost intimate.

Espresso glanced at the clock.

“You should return to your studio,” he said. “You work better at night.”

“You know my schedule too well.”

“I observe patterns.”

Vaniel smiled and reached for his coat.

As he stepped away from the counter, he paused.

“Tell Adeline I said hello.”

Espresso stiffened faintly.

“I will not be acting as your messenger”

“Of course not,” Vaniel replied sweetly. “You’ll just ‘coincidentally’ mention it.”

“…Goodnight, Vaniel.”

Vaniel laughed softly as he stepped back into the damp evening.

The rain had nearly stopped now. The city shimmered under streetlights, reflections stretching like liquid gold.

He walked slower this time, warmth lingering from the coffee..and the conversation.

Espresso had been right about one thing.

He was restless.

But it wasn’t desperation.

It was anticipation.

Somewhere in the vastness of this city was a presence he hadn’t encountered yet. Someone who would avoid eye contact. Someone who would sit too stiffly in front of a camera. Someone who didn’t realize how visible they already were.

Vaniel tightened his grip on his camera strap, a soft smile playing at his lips.

He wasn’t searching frantically.

He was simply waiting for the right light to shift.

And when it did—

He would be ready.

Chapter Text

Vaniel woke up to the sound of his alarm playing the softest, most peaceful melody known to mankind.

He still smacked his phone like it had personally offended him.

He blinked at the ceiling of his studio loft. His hair was a total mess, and a blanket half on the floor. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, pale and harmless.

For a brief moment, he felt calm..

..Until he rolled onto his side.

..And then he saw it.

The paper.

bright, red and taunting.

RENT DUE.

It was taped to the edge of his desk like it was some kind of motivational poster from hell

Vaniel stared at it.

The paper stared back.

He slowly rolled onto his other side.

“Yeah..not today,” he muttered.

He reached for his phone instead, atleast its much safer and less judgemental.

Notifications flooded the screen, client emails and a gallery inquiry. a spam message claiming he had won a free cruise (unlikely).

And—

A text from his landlord.

He of course did not open it, he most likely ignored it like always.

Instead, he opened his group chat.

Vaniel: “Good morning everyone, please confirm that you are all alive!”

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Holly: “Alive and READY to fight the day”

Chryso: “It's 7:12 a.m in the morning, Why.”

Cade: “Alive.”

Vaniel smiled into his pillow, he always loved talking to his old friends. Sad that they don't see eachother often like before.

Vaniel: "Just checking, making sure no one perished overnight."

Holly: "I almost did, my alarm attacked me"

Chryso: "That is not how alarms function"

Holly: "Says YOU."

Vaniel sat up, blanket pooling around his waist. He rubbed his eyes and stretched dramatically.

Vaniel: “Chryso, have you slept? Be honest..”

Chryso: “Sleep is inefficient.”

Vaniel: “That was not my question.”

Chryso: “…Yes.”

He doubted that.

Vaniel glanced accidentally towards the desk again..

oh god.

The red paper seemed brighter in daylight.

He stood up too quickly.

“Coffee!” he decided out loud. “..Coffee solves everything yeah..!”

He shuffled toward his tiny kitchen corner, nearly tripping over a stack of canvases.

“Okay, maybe coffee solves most things.”

As he waited for the kettle, he checked his phone again.

A private message from  Lily.

Lily: “Did you eat dinner last night?”

He winced.

Technically… he had eaten half a cookie. That counted, right?

Vaniel: “Yes.”

Lily: “Define eat.”

Vaniel: “Well..I consumed nutrients! That counts right..?”

She sent a single unimpressed emoji.

He couldnt help but grin. He appreciated how much lily cared for him.

The kettle suddenly clicked off. He poured hot water over instant coffee because, despite having very strong opinions about quality, he was too lazy this morning to grind beans.

He carried the mug to his desk.

And there it was again.

RENT DUE.

He sat down slowly.

“Okay,” he told himself. “Let’s be mature.”

He flipped the paper face down.

“There! Handled.”

He opened his laptop instead.

Editing helped, It grounded him

He clicked through photos from yesterday—the rainy street, the laughing child, the blurred lights. He liked them, they felt alive.

But none of them felt like the one.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“I seriously need a new project,” he murmured.

His phone buzzed again.

Private message from Espresso this time!

Hmm..he barely got any messages from that guy honestly so it was new!

Espresso: “Do not harass Adeline today.”

Of course he would talk about Adeline.

Vaniel: “I would never harass anyone in the first place!”

Espresso: “You absolutely would.”

Vaniel: “I am a gentle instigator at most.”

There was a pause.

Then—

Espresso: “…He asked if you were well.”

Vaniel’s smile couldnt help but soften.

Vaniel: “Tell him I am radiant and financially unstable!”

Espresso: “..I'll tell him nothing.”

Vaniel laughed quietly.

He closed the chat and spun slowly in his chair, scanning the studio.

Messy couch, half-finished canvases, light pouring through tall windows, his camera resting near the edge of the desk.

He loved this place.

Even with the stupid red paper.

He stood up suddenly, energized by absolutely nothing.

“Okay! New plan.”

He grabbed his camera and began rearranging the studio.

He started to move the stool and shifted the backdrop, adjusted the curtain and he even watered the struggling fern.

“Live,” he told it firmly. “We are both trying.”

He paused mid-adjustment, staring at the empty space near the window.

He imagined someone standing there.

Not posing.

Just existing.

Someone uncomfortable with attention. Someone who wouldn’t know where to put their hands.

He smiled faintly.

“I’d make it easy for you,” he murmured to the empty room.

His phone buzzed again.

Lily.

Lily: “Are you working today?”

Vaniel: “Always”

Lily: “Good, don’t spiral”

Vaniel: “I don’t spiral”

Lily: “You absolutely do spiral”

Rude!

He set the phone down and exhaled.

The morning felt normal just a littile mkre light and maybe a little chaotic.

But under it all was that same quiet restlessness from yesterday.

Like something was about to shift.

He glanced—just once—at the rent paper again..

“ugh.. Later,” he told himself.

Then he lifted his camera, pointed it at the sunlit dust in the air, and pressed the shutter.

Click.

The sound echoed softly through the loft.

For now, that was enough.

Vaniel decided that if he stared at the rent paper any longer, it might actually start charging him interest out of spite.

So he did what any responsible adult would do!

He turned on music loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

Something upbeat..well maybe it was a little dramatic like the kind of song that made editing feel like he was directing a masterpiece instead of adjusting exposure for the fifteenth time..

He kicked off his slippers, sliding across the wooden floor in his socks as he moved back to his desk. The fern trembled from the sudden breeze.

“Sorry,” he told it, honestly he should stop talking to his plants.

Vaniel dropped into his chair and started editing again, the rhythm helped. Click. Adjust. Crop. Warm the tones. Lower the highlights. Bring out the softness in someone’s eyes.

He hummed along to the music, occasionally singing the wrong lyrics with full confidence.

At one point he leaned too far back in his chair.

The chair leaned back harder.

For one terrifying second, he saw his entire life flash before his eyes.

But thank god he slammed his feet down and caught himself just in time.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “We won’t do THAT again..”

He glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed his near-death experience which obviously there was nobody there beside him.

Besides the fern...that remained neutral.

After another hour, he realized that his eyes started to blur again so he decided to save his work before shutting the laptop with a nod, then stood.

“Fresh air,” he declared. “We are touching grass today!”

He changed into a soft cream sweater and a long coat. He ran a hand through his pale hair, and grabbed his camera—just in case he would capture anything.

The city was brighter now. The rain from yesterday had washed everything clean. Pavement still shimmered slightly under the midday sun, and the air smelled fresh instead of heavy.

Vaniel walked with no real destination..again, hands tucked into his coat sleeves.

He passed shop windows, street vendors, people arguing about something trivial and important at the same time

Then he looked up.

And froze.

Across the street, towering over the intersection, was a massive billboard.

It was impossible to miss.

A fashion campaign, minimalist, high-end, dramatic lighting.

And at the center of it—

Shamil.

The town’s most talked-about model!

Tall, sharp features, blue curled hair styled perfectly careless. His expression cool, almost distant. He wore a sleek black coat that probably cost more than Vaniel’s monthly rent..his gaze in the photo wasn’t directly at the camera just slightly off to the side, like he wasn’t trying to be seen but couldn’t help it anyway.

Even printed ten meters tall, there was something restrained about him, controlled and even guarded..

Vaniel felt something tighten in his chest.

“That lighting is incredible,” he murmured automatically.

He tilted his head, studying the composition. The shadows were deep but soft. The photographer had captured the line of Shamil’s jaw, the tension in his posture.

He didn’t look comfortable.

He looked composed.

There was a difference.

Vaniel shifted his weight.

There was absolutely no universe where he would ever photograph someone like that.

Models like Shamil worked with major agencies. BIG BIG studios, Professionals with assistants and expensive equipment and probably chairs that didn’t try to kill them.

Vaniel had a stubborn fern.

He gave a small, self-aware smile.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “NEVER happening.”

Still… he kept looking.

There was something in Shamil’s eyes.. Something almost tired.

Like he was somewhere else entirely.

Vaniel shook his head and forced himself to walk again.

“Stop romanticizing billboards!” he told himself. “That’s just weird!”

He had barely taken ten steps when someone slammed into him.

Hard.

His camera swung forward. He grabbed it just in time.

“Oh! I’m so sorry i didnt mean—” he started.

The woman who had bumped into him looked like she had personally declared war on the entire city, perfectly styled pink hair and weirdly sharp heels..expression carved from pure annoyance.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she snapped.

Vaniel blinked.

“I was walking in a straight line.”

“Well, walk better then.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“…I’ll try to improve my walking technique next time then,” he said politely.

She huffed and stormed off like she had just won an argument.

Vaniel stood there for a second.

Then he looked down at himself.

“I thought I was walking fine,” he murmured.

He shrugged it off quickly, some people just carried storms around with them. No point borrowing someone else’s weather.

He continued down the street, stopping briefly at a small bookstore he liked. He didn’t buy anything..because..well..rent but! he wandered between shelves, flipping through photography books he couldn’t possibly afford.

One of them featured high-fashion editorial shoots.

Shamil appeared again in several spreads.

Different clothes and different poses.

But the same distant expression remained..

Vaniel traced the edge of one page lightly.

“He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than there,” he chuckled quietly. 

The shop clerk glanced at him strangely.

Vaniel coughed and closed the book.

“..Just appreciating the composition haha..!” he clarified awkwardly before slipping out of the store.

Back outside, he wandered toward a small park tucked between buildings. It wasn’t large, but it had benches and trees that tried their best.

He sat down, letting the sun warm his face.

Around him, life moved normally. A dog barked at nothing. Two teenagers argued over a phone. An elderly couple fed birds with patient amusement.

Vaniel lifted his camera again.

Click.

Click.

These were the moments he loved.

Unpolished..unaware.

He lowered the camera and leaned back on the bench.

For a brief second, his mind drifted back to the billboard.

To that controlled expression..that carefully crafted image..

He wondered what Shamil looked like when no one was watching.

Then he laughed at himself.

“..Like I'll ever find out..i doubt that i would even get to photograph someone as famous as him.”

The idea was ridiculous.

Someone like Shamil probably had an entire team managing his schedule, assistants EVEN AGENTS!

Vaniel barely managed his laundry schedule.

He stood up, stretching his arms overhead.

“Okay, enough daydreaming”

The day wasn’t over. He still had editing to finish..and maybe he’d stop by the market and buy something affordable that could legally be considered as dinner.

As he walked back toward the busier streets, he didn’t notice the large black car idling briefly near the curb.

He didn’t notice the figure in the back seat glancing out the tinted window.

He didn’t notice familiar blue eyes scanning the crowd—

And pausing.

Just for a second.

On him.

Meanwhile Vaniel was too busy adjusting his camera strap before nearly walking into a street sign again.

He recovered smoothly.

…lets pretend that didn’t happen.

Vaniel told himself he was absolutely not going back to stare at the billboard again.

So naturally, he walked three blocks in the opposite direction… and ended up in front of the largest bookstore in the district.

“Coincidence,” he said to no one.

It won't hurt to visit another bookstore would it?

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The place smelled like paper and coffee and quiet judgment. Tall shelves stretched toward the ceiling, ladders sliding along rails. Sunlight filtered in through high windows, catching dust in golden streaks.

It was peaceful.

Dangerously peaceful.

Vaniel wandered instinctively toward the art section of course, photography, visual theory, lighting guides he couldn’t afford but liked to pretend he was 'considering investing in.'

He pulled out a thick phototherapy book—one of those serious ones with matte covers and intimidating fonts.

He flipped it open casually.

And froze.

Full-page spread.

Shamil.

Again.

This time the styling was different than the last one he saw.

Softer, He wore a pale blue shirt, the fabric loose at the collar. His white bangs fell slightly into his eyes, contrasting sharply with the rest of his hair—blue curls that framed his face like waves caught mid-motion. The lighting was cool, almost oceanic. It was a beautiful scenery.

His expression?

Sharp.

Not angry. Not exactly.

Just… unimpressed with the concept of being perceived.

Vaniel stared again before flipping the page.

“Oh come on!” he whispered.

Another spread.

Different shoot. Darker tones. Shamil in a structured jacket, gaze cutting straight through the lens this time. There was something almost challenging about it, like he was daring the viewer to misunderstand him.

Vaniel leaned against the shelf slowly.

“..He’s everywhere!” he sighed.

He wasn’t even looking for fashion books. This was supposed to be about therapeutic portrait work. Emotional honesty. Vulnerability.

Yet somehow, Shamil’s face had found him again.

He studied the details this time. The way the photographer captured tension in his shoulders. The slight tightening around his mouth. The fact that his eyes looked different in each shoot—sometimes distant, sometimes bored, sometimes almost… amused..

There was one photo in particular that made Vaniel pause.

It was candid. Or at least styled to look candid.

Shamil was seated on a stool, sleeves rolled up, blue curls slightly messy. He wasn’t looking at the camera. His brows were drawn together like someone had just said something mildly stupid and vaniel couldnt help but laugh.

His mouth was curved faintly—not a smile. More like a restrained, sarcastic half-reaction.

Vaniel felt it again.

That tug in his chest.

“He doesn’t like being looked at,” he noticed.

“Are you planning to purchase that?”

Vaniel jumped.

The bookstore clerk stood a few feet away, arms crossed. She had the energy of someone who had caught one too many customers reading entire novels for free.

“Oh—uh,” Vaniel immediately straightened himself. “I’m evaluating..!”

“For how long?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’ve been standing in the same spot for twelve minutes.”

“..Wait twelve?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… very specific.”

“I notice patterns.”

He suddenly felt personally attacked.

“I’m an artist,” he said defensively. “..We absorb”

“You’re absorbing without buying.”

Vaniel glanced down at the book like it might defend him.

“I fully intended to purchase this.”

“Did you?”

He hesitated.

“…Emotionally?”

The clerk stared at him.

Vaniel smiled brightly.

She did not.

“You may sit and browse for a reasonable amount of time,” she said flatly. “But this is not a library.”

He nodded quickly. “Understood. I will browse with fiscal responsibility..!” He definitely did not want to deal with that..

She walked away, unconvinced.

Vaniel exhaled and carefully lowered himself into one of the small reading chairs tucked between shelves.

He flipped the page again.

Another Shamil spread.

This one was high-contrast black and white. The sharpness of his features stood out even more without color. His white bangs looked almost silver under the lighting. His blue curls fell against his temple, slightly damp like he’d just stepped out into sea air.

His expression was colder here.

Guarded.

But there was something else too. A crack in it. Subtle. Almost invisible.

Vaniel leaned forward unconsciously.

“What are you hiding?” he murmured.

A teenager nearby glanced at him.

Vaniel coughed and pretended to read a paragraph very intensely.

He shouldn’t be THIS invested.

It was ridiculous.

Shamil didn’t even know he existed!

He was just a face on a billboard. A model in a book. Someone who had a personal stylist and a schedule managed down to the minute.

Vaniel had almost been kicked out for loitering.

Different worlds.

He flipped to the back of the book, scanning the credits.

Big-name photographers, big agencies..

..Of course.

No chance.

He closed the book gently and stood, sliding it back into place with reluctant care.

“Another day,” he whispered to it, like it was a person.

As he turned to leave the aisle, he nearly collided with someone stepping around the corner.

“Sorry—!”

The person stepped back smoothly.

Tall.

Dressed in a dark coat that looked expensive without trying too hard.

White bangs falling slightly into sharp, cool eyes.

Blue curls framing his face like waves caught in motion.

Vaniel’s brain stopped working. He DID NOT believe his eyes.

For a split second, he thought the bookstore had installed holograms.

The man in front of him looked mildly irritated.

“You’re blocking the aisle,” he said.

The voice was smooth. Calm. Slightly edged.

Vaniel blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

“…I,” he started unintelligently.

Chapter Text

Vaniel did not panic.

He ABSOLUTELY did not panic.

He simply stood in the middle of the bookstore aisle, staring at a very VERY real, very tall and very familiar-looking man who had just told him he was blocking the aisle.

..Normal, casual even! very chill!

Exceptionally calm for someone currently standing in front of the most recognizable face in the city while being informed, in a voice smoother than expensive cologne—

“You’re blocking the aisle.” the man repeated, which certainly did slap Vaniel out of his thoughts.

Oh. Right. That.

His voice was really smooth, calm even. Slightly edged—like he was used to people being in his way.

Vaniel blinked.

“Oh.”

Brilliant response.

Very brilliant Vaniel.

Absolutely brilliant.

He stepped to the side so fast he almost clipped a rotating book display with his elbow.

“Sorry,—” he added quickly, adjusting his coat like that had been his plan all along. “Spatial awareness is aaaa.. um… developing skill!”

The man looked at him for a long second. It almsot looked like he was judging him.

Sharp beautiful blue eyes—white bangs falling slightly into them. Blue curls framing his face like actual ocean waves someone had styled into submission.

Up close, he looked even less like a billboard and more like a person who had zero patience for nonsense.

Vaniel did not stare.

He absolutely did not stare.

He looked at.. the shelf, Yes! Books. Words. Knowledge. Love that.

The man reached past him to grab a photography volume from the shelf.

Of course he did.

Vaniel’s brain screamed.

STAY NORMAL.

“So,” Vaniel said lightly, like this was some random stranger and not the face currently plastered across half the city’s luxury billboards, “big into photography?”

He internally slapped himself.

The man glanced down at the book in his hand, then back at Vaniel.

“No,” he said flatly. “I just enjoy holding heavy objects.”

There it was.

That dry delivery that sounded rude until you realized it was humor and then you weren’t sure if that was even better.

Vaniel almost wanted to end it all right now.

Vaniel coughed. “Right! Obviously.” He was absolutely going to pass away.

The man studied him again, he wasnt really annoyed, just.. measuring.

“Your not subtle,” he said.

“About?”

“Whatever you’re trying to do.”

Vaniel’s soul left his body briefly.

“I’m not trying to do anything,” he replied, smiling in a way what he hoped was a normal human way.

“You’re trying very hard to look like you’re not trying.”

…Rude.

But that was.. still unfortunately, accurate.

But rude.

Vaniel nodded slowly. “You seem very observant.” He deflected.

“I have to be.”

There was something in the way he said that, very quick. Controlled. Like it was just a fact, not something up for discussion.

Vaniel latched onto the safest topic as possible.

“So, uh… are you a student?” he asked with a weirdly awkward smile. 

He regretted it immediately.

Seriously, vaniel?! a student?! He’s literally almost your age, you absolute fossil!

The man’s eyebrow lifted.

“..Do I look like a student?”

Vaniel opened his mouth.

Then.. closed it.

“…You look like someone who intimidates professors.”

A pause.

Then—barely—something shifted at the corner of the man’s mouth.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.

Good! Progress.. no spontaneous combustion yet.

Vaniel nodded toward the book in his hand. “Researching something specific?”

“Lighting.”

Of course.

Vaniel perked up, that was safe territory. It was probably one of Vaniel's favorite topics, honestly.  “Natural or studio?”

“Controlled studio, I prefer knowing exactly where the shadows fall.”

Vaniel tilted his head slightly.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s efficient.”

“Maybe,” Vaniel shrugged. “But sometimes the best shots happen when things aren’t controlled.”

The man’s gaze sharpened just slightly.

“Uncontrolled lighting ruins detail.”

“Or reveals it.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

It wasn’t tense exactly.

More like… a quiet challenge.

Vaniel realized he might be accidentally debating lighting philosophy with the literal face of three different ad campaigns.

He coughed and broke eye contact first.

“Well,” he said brightly, because brightness was his coping mechanism, “good luck with your um.. lighting endeavors.”

He stepped back.

Which was probably one of his biggest mistake..

Because he stepped directly onto the rolling ladder platform.

Which moved.

Quickly.

Vaniel windmilled his arms in a dramatic, deeply uncool attempt to try and regain balance.

The man reached out instinctively and grabbed his sleeve.

Firm grip, steady.

Vaniel froze, and so did he.

They were suddenly closer.

Very close.

Vaniel became painfully aware of the texture of those blue curls, the faint scent of blueberries and something expensive, the warmth of fingers still gripping his coat. 

The man let go almost immediately.

“You’re unstable,” he said calmly.

“That’s a bold statement to make about someone you just met.”

“.. I meant physically.”

“Oh! Good.. Yes.. That too..”

There it was again—that tiny exhale that might have been a laugh if the man allowed himself such reckless displays.

Vaniel caught it.

Victory.

The bookstore clerk appeared at the end of the aisle again, eyes narrowing, already exhausted by Vaniel’s existence. oh how he hated that woman.

“Sir,” she called out, clearly meaning Vaniel, “if you continue to treat the ladder as transportation equipment, you will be asked to leave.”

He scoffed “It moved on its own!” Vaniel defended.

“It has wheels.”

“Which feels like a design flaw!”

The man beside him shook his head slightly, probably holding his laugh.

“You should probably stand still,” he said.

“That’s never worked for me,” Vaniel replied.

Silence again.

But this time, it felt.. softer.

The man shifted the book under his arm.

“You’re a photographer,” he said again, more certain now. “right?”

Vaniel tried very hard not to react like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket.

“I dabble,” he replied modestly.

“You were analyzing that page earlier.”

Vaniel’s heart skipped.

Oh no.

“I analyze everything,” he lied.

“You were staring at a specific spread.”

He knew.

He absolutely knew.

Vaniel forced himself to shrug casually. “Good composition.”

“It was average.”

Vaniel blinked.

Average?!

He almost defended it on instinct.

Almost said that It was literally you.

Instead, he swallowed it.

“Well,” he said carefully, “I guess that depends on perspective.”

The man studied him again, longer this time.

“.. You don’t seem impressed,” he observed.

Vaniel nearly choked.

“I’m very hard to impress.”

That was the biggest lie he had ever told.

The man tilted his head slightly.

“.. Good,” he said.

The word almost felt deliberate.

Vaniel wasn’t sure what that meant.

A phone buzzed faintly in the man’s coat pocket. He glanced at it, expression cooling slightly.

“I.. have to go,” he said.

Vaniel nodded quickly. “Of course! Wouldn’t want to keep you from… lighting control.”

Another faint almost-smirk.

“You’re strange,” he said.

“I’ve been told so.”

He stepped past Vaniel, walking toward the front of the store.

Vaniel stayed exactly where he was.

Not staring.

Definitely not staring.

As the man reached the door, he paused briefly and glanced back.

Just once.

Eyes sharp, assessing.

Then he left.

The bell chimed softly as the door closed.

Vaniel stood there for a full five seconds.

Then ten.

Then—

He grabbed the nearest book off the shelf and pressed it to his face.

“Oh my god,” he whispered into the pages. “Oh my god oh my god oh my—”

The clerk reappeared almost immediately which caused vaniel to jump.

“If you are hyperventilating,” she said flatly, “please do it outside.”

“Witchs! I’m fine!” he squeaked.

He lowered the book slowly.

His heart was still racing.

He had done it.

He had met Shamil.

And he had not once said, I know exactly who you are, and I have seen your face almost twelve times today.

He straightened his coat.

Composure restored.

.. Well, mostly.

As he walked toward the exit himself, he passed the large front window.

Outside, a sleek black car waited at the curb.

The same man stood beside it, speaking briefly to someone through the open door.

White bangs catching the light.

Blue curls shifting in the breeze.

For a second—

Those sharp eyes lifted.

Locked directly with Vaniel’s through the glass.

No smile, not even a wave.. just a look.. measured and curious.

Then he ducked into the car, and it pulled away smoothly into traffic.

Vaniel stood frozen in the doorway.

His heart was still doing something deeply unprofessional.

“…This is fine,” he muttered. “I’m completely normal.”

He was not.

And the worst part?

He had absolutely no plan.

No strategy.

No idea what just happened.

But one thing was very clear.

Shamil hadn’t looked at him like a stranger.

...

Vaniel walked in the opposite direction of the bookstore.

Not because he had somewhere to be.

Not because he needed fresh air.

But because if he stood within a fifty-meter radius of that storefront any longer, he was fairly certain his internal organs would stage a dramatic protest and probably combust.

He kept a steady pace. Calm. Casual. Totally normal citizen who did not just debate lighting theory with one of the most recognizable faces in the city.

“Average,” he muttered under his breath.

Average?!

The audacity. The disrespect. The absolute nerve of a man who had been photographed from every conceivable angle to call that composition average.

He turned a corner too sharply and nearly collided with a mailbox.

He caught himself at the last second.

“Focus,” he whispered to himself. “You are a functioning adult, god dammit!”

A group of teenagers walked past him, laughing loudly. One of them glanced back.

Vaniel realized too late that he probably had said that out loud.

He smiled politely at absolutely nothing and resumed walking like a normal human being.

Okay.

Let’s process this normally.

He met a stranger.

They talked.

He almost fell off a ladder.

The stranger caught him.

The stranger may or may not be the face currently covering half the city skyline.

Normal day.

Totally survivable!

He ran a hand through his pale hair and groaned loudly.

Why—why—the hell did he say he was hard to impress?

He once teared up over window lighting in a damn bakery! He also had an entire folder labeled as clouds that changed my life?!

And yet he stood there, IN FRONT of THE Shamil, and decided to pretend he had standards?!

He groaned loudly.

“.. And I called that shoot simple,” he whispered in horror.

A man walking his dog glanced at him.

Vaniel gave him an aggressively reassuring smile

The dog barked once, judgmentally.

Great, even a dog is judging him.

By the time he reached his building, his heart has been still doing small dramatic jumps for absolutely no reason.

He climbed the stairs to his loft and unlocked the door.

Inside, the studio greeted him with familiar quiet.

Safe. Predictable.

He dropped his coat onto the couch and paced once across the room.

Once.

Then twice.

Then, three times.

“Okay,” he said out loud, clapping his hands together like he was about to host a meeting “..Let’s review!”

He pointed at the air like he was presenting to an invisible audience.

“Point one: I totally did not embarrass myself beyond recovery!”

He paused.

“Okay well…Debatable.”

He flopped onto the couch and covered his face with both hands.

Why did Shamil look at him like that?

Not annoyed.

Just… curious.

Vaniel rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling, replaying that look over and over again.

Well who knows! Maybe he treated everyone like that. Maybe that sharp tone and measuring stare were just standard equipment. Some people collected watches. Shamil collected micro-reactions.

Vaniel suddenly sat up.

Wait.

What if he actually didn’t recognize him?

No, that was impossible. Recognize him. How? Vaniel wasn’t famous. He wasn’t mysterious either. He was just some guy who nearly died via ladder.

He stood and wandered toward his desk.

And there it was.

That awful sheet of paper.

RENT DUE.

Reality slapped him gently.

He stared at it for a long moment before picking up his camera instead.

Distraction.

Yes.

Healthy coping mechanisms.

He scrolled through the photos from earlier—park light filtering through trees, the bookstore shelves, dust caught in a beam of sunlight like suspended gold.

Then his thumb paused.

.. There.

A photo he didn’t remember taking.

The bookstore aisle.

Blurred shelves. Off-center framing.

And at the edge of the glass display—

A partial reflection in the glass of a display case.

But it was him.

Vaniel stared at it and his heart did that thing again.

He zoomed in slightly.

White bangs.

Blue curls.

A sharp profile caught mid-thought.

Vaniel froze.

It wasn’t a perfect shot. The lighting was uneven. The angle slightly crooked.

But the expression—

That wasn’t the controlled, composed billboard face.

It was softer.

Almost distracted.

Vaniel swallowed.

He hadn’t meant to capture that.

But he just… did.

He leaned back slowly in his chair.

“He prefers controlled studio lighting,” Vaniel murmured quietly. “Wants to know exactly where the shadows fall.”

He looked at the accidental photo again.

This one wasn’t controlled.

It was well.. messy.

Unexpected.

But it felt… honest.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“Uncontrolled reveals detail,” he said softly, a small smile forming despite himself.

His phone buzzed.

Vaniel physically jumped, nearly sending his coffee mug into early retirement.

“Whats with everything attacking me today?!” he demanded of the universe.

He glanced at the notification.

Huh?

Unknown number.

His stomach dropped slightly.

He opened it.

No message yet.

Just a contact request.

He stared at it for a long moment.

It could be anyone.

A client.

Spam.

A wrong number.

Then flipped the phone face down on the desk like it had personally offended him.

“Nope, Not today!” he said firmly.

He stood up again and walked to the window, staring out at the city below.

Cars moved steadily. People hurried home. The world continued like nothing monumental had happened.

But something had shifted.

He felt it.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just… a thread.

He ran a hand through his hair again.

“We are not spiraling over a man who called you unstable,” he informed himself. “We have standards. We have dignity!”

He turned back to his desk.

The phone buzzed again.

He froze.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

He picked it up.

A message preview lit the screen.

Unknown Number:

Good evening. This is Mr. Shamil’s management team.

We’d like to discuss a potential photography engagement with you.

Vaniel stared at the screen.

His brain shut down.

His heart did something violent.

He whispered one single, very mature word–

“.. shit.”

Chapter Text

Vaniel stared at his phone a little bit longer than necessary.

The message didn’t disappear.

He kinda almost wished it would.

Good evening, this is Mr. Shamil’s management team.

We’d like to discuss a potential photography engagement with you.

He read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower, like maybe he’d misunderstood something the first two times.

He hadn’t.

Photography engagement.

With you.

Him.

He swallowed.

This had to be about the bookstore, there was no other explanation. He hadn’t submitted anything new recently.. no new applications. No cold emails. Just.. that afternoon. The ladder incident.. The accidental eye contact that had lasted half a second too long.

He sat down in his desk chair without really meaning to. His heart was doing something dramatic again, but he refused to label it as panic.

The room felt oddly quiet now. His camera bag was still on the floor where he’d dropped it earlier, one of his lenses sat uncapped on the desk. The small lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow glow against the wall, and for a second everything looked painfully normal.

Meanwhile, his chest felt anything but.

A photography engagement.

.. He could pay rent.

That thought came suddenly, cutting through everything else.

Rent was due in a week!

He still had enough, technically.. but barely. Enough that he’d been doing that thing again, checking his banking app more often than necessary just to reassure himself the numbers hadn’t changed overnight.

If this was real..

He suddenly leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone still in his hand.

Okay.

Think.

This didn’t mean anything beyond work, It didn’t mean destiny or whatever nonsense Lily would probably call it. It meant someone had looked at his portfolio and decided he was competent enough to reach out.

Competent.

That was good.

.. That was very good.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Good evening. Thank you for reaching out. I’d be happy to discuss further.

He deleted it.

Too eager.

He tried again.

Good evening. I’m available to speak regarding the engagement. Please let me know the next steps.

He stared at his reply for a long moment.

He probably read it more than at least three times.

At least it sounded normal? Maybe professional even while we are at it. Not like someone who had almost fallen off a ladder in front of the same person’s face a few hours ago.

He pressed send before he could overthink it.

The message whooshed away.

He immediately felt exposed.

But there was nothing to do now but wait.

He leaned back in his chair and dragged a hand down his face. His pulse was still a little too fast. Not panic. Just.. adrenaline, maybe.

Or nerves.

Or both, who knows!

He exhaled slowly.

He needed to tell someone before he convinced himself he imagined it.

His thumb hovered over Lily’s contact for half a second before he hit call.

She picked up on the second ring. “If this is about you setting something on fire again, I’m busy.” She answered quickly

“I did not set anything on fire,” Vaniel said defensively. “But I have news.” He inhaled sharply.

“That tone concerns me.”

“It’s good news.”

“.. That tone concerns me even more.”

He stood up and started pacing without realizing it. The rug caught slightly under his heel.

“Okay.. so hypothetically,” he started, already losing composure, “if you met someone at a bookstore, and that someone was, let’s say, an objectively well-known guy—”

“Vaniel.”

“—and that someone’s management team then texted you about a potential photography engagement—”

There was a pause on the other end.

A very long one.

“.. What.”

He grinned helplessly, staring at the ceiling. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“Vaniel.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“.. You’re joking.”

“I am definitely not joking.”

Another pause, he could practically hear her sitting up from excitement.

“Wait, Wait, hold on. You mean him?”

“Yes.”

“The weird blue-haired one?”

“Yes.”

A sharp inhale on her end.

He found himself smiling at the ceiling again. It still felt strange saying it out loud.

“You mean to tell me,” she said slowly, “that Mr. Cheekbones himself wants YOU to photograph him for an upcoming ad!?”

“Well.. potentially,” Vaniel corrected quickly. “It says ‘discuss,’ We are only discussingso far and I'm very normal about this.”

“Are you?”

He tripped slightly over the edge of the rug and caught himself on the back of the couch.

“I am.. kinda functioning.”

She laughed softly. “Vaniel.. That’s huge!”

“I know.” His voice quieted a little. “It just feels unreal.. like it happened too fast.”

He looked around his studio again.. the slightly scuffed floors, the uneven stack of photo books near the window, the cracked corner of his desk where he’d dropped a tripod last year.

Nothing looked different.

But it felt different.

“If this becomes official,” he said slowly, “I have to be prepared, like actually prepared. I can NOT mess it up like my last partnership..”

“You won’t,” Lily said easily. “You’re always good at what you do.”

He adjusted his glasses out of habit, though they hadn’t slipped.

He wanted to believe her.

They talked for a few more minutes.. about portfolios, about possible concepts, about how he absolutely could not wear that one wrinkled black shirt he always defaulted to.

When they hung up, the quiet returned.

He stared at his phone again.

As if summoned by his attention, it buzzed in his hand.

Another message.

From the same number.

His stomach flipped.

But this time, instead of dread, something steadier settled in his chest.

He straightened without thinking.

.. Okay.

He could do this..

He realized that the new message was longer.

Vaniel appreciated that immediately, long messages meant structure. Structure meant intention. Intention meant this wasn’t some vague, offhand inquiry that could dissolve if he blinked too hard–OK no.

He opened it carefully anyway.

Thank you for your prompt response.

Mr. Shamil is preparing for an upcoming campaign and has specifically requested a photographer with a naturalistic style.

We reviewed your portfolio and believe your work aligns with the direction.

Are you available this week for a preliminary meeting?

Vaniel blinked.

He read it again, slower this time.

.. Specifically requested?

.. Naturalistic style?

.. Reviewed your portfolio?!

He lowered himself into his desk chair like the floor might shift if he moved too quickly.

“Okay,” he whispered to the empty room, pressing his lips together to stop them from doing something embarrassing like smiling too wide. “Okay, This is.. Definitely real.”

His gaze drifted to his camera resting on the desk. The strap was slightly twisted. There was still a faint fingerprint on the lens from earlier. Nothing felt different. 

And yet everything felt tilted.

Specifically requested.

Not approved. Not agreed to. Not assigned.

Requested.

Which meant Shamil had been part of the decision.

.. Personally.

Vaniel pressed his palms over his eyes and inhaled slowly. He refused to let his brain take that in the wrong direction. This was not about ego. It was not about validation. It was not about the bookstore.

This was about direction.

Naturalistic style.

He let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh.

Of course.

He had spent years trying to convince people that controlled lighting wasn’t the only way to capture something meaningful. That shadows weren’t flaws. That unposed expressions held more truth than perfectly angled jawlines.

And now someone whose entire public presence revolved around precision and polish wanted.. that.

“Oh, that’s ironic,” he muttered under his breath. He had a habit of doing that.. letting his thoughts slip out half-formed, as if saying them aloud helped anchor them. “That’s dangerously poetic. I don’t like that.”

He picked up his phone before doubt could creep in and typed.

Thank you for considering my work. I’m available this week and would be glad to meet. Please let me know a time and location that works for Mr. Shamil.

He read it twice.

No exclamation marks.

No emotional punctuation.

Grounded. Neutral. Professional.

He sent it

And immediately stood up because suddenly sitting still felt impossible for him.

He walked into the small kitchen area of his loft and poured himself a glass of water. His hands were steady, which surprised him. He took a long sip and stared at his reflection in the microwave door.

“Have faith in yourslef, vaniel.” he informed himself quietly.

His reflection looked unconvinced.

His phone buzzed again.

Too fast.

That was too fast.

He didn’t rush back this time. He walked, deliberately. Calm. Measured. Like approaching a skittish animal that might bolt if startled.

The reply was short this time.

Tomorrow at 3 PM. Our studio address is attached below.

Please bring a selection of your recent work.

 Looking forward to meeting you.

Tomorrow.

.. THREE PM?!

Vaniel stared at the screen long enough for it to dim.

He tapped it awake again.

.. Tomorrow?

That was less than twenty-four hours away. That was barely enough time to emotionally reassemble himself into someone who looked like he belonged in a room where campaigns were built and careers shifted direction.

He opened the attached address.

His stomach flipped.

He recognized it instantly. Not just a studio. The studio. The kind that produced billboards twenty feet tall. The kind that operated with assistants who wore headsets and moved like everything cost money per second.

He swallowed.

“Okay,” he murmured, softer this time. “Fine.”

If Shamil wanted naturalistic, then he would get naturalistic.

He sat down at his computer and opened his portfolio folders. Not the ones curated for social media. Not the overly polished selections he’d once assembled to appeal to agencies that preferred sharpness over sincerity.

He opened the older files.

The candid shots. The in-between frames. The portraits taken just before someone laughed or just after they stopped pretending not to.

He built a new folder slowly.

He selected pieces that breathed.

There was the street musician who had looked directly into the lens, unaware his eyes were shining. The café owner wiping her hands on her apron mid-conversation. The portrait of Lily on her balcony, wind pushing her hair across her face, completely unposed.

He hesitated over the accidental reflection shot from earlier this day.

He opened it again.

The composition wasn’t exactly perfect. The angle was slightly off and the framing was also a little unbalanced..

But the expression—

Unscripted.

He stared at it for a long moment, then dragged it into a separate folder labeled as Maybe.

Not for the meeting.

.. Just to keep.

He didn’t analyze that decision too closely.

His phone lit up with a notification.

Lily: Did you die or are we planning outfits?

He smiled before he could stop himself.

Vaniel: Tomorrow. 3 PM. The studio.

The typing indicator appeared instantly.

Lily: I’m coming over.

He laughed under his breath. “Of course you are.”

He looked around his loft, suddenly seeing it from the perspective of someone who might step into a very different space tomorrow.

His clothes were draped over the back of a chair. A stack of medication bottles sat near the edge of the kitchen counter. Prints were scattered across the drying rack. His camera batteries were charging beside a chipped mug he’d owned for years.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But it was his.

The realization settled over him quietly.

He closed his laptop gently, like the opportunity might spill out if he moved too quickly.

And then his stomach growled.

He blinked.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Right.. That.”

He hadn’t eaten properly all day. Coffee did not count. He knew that. His body was reminding him of it.

“We are not attending a potentially career-altering meeting powered exclusively by caffeine and delusion,” he said firmly to the air.

The kitchen was small but functional. White cabinets, slightly crooked shelf, a fern in the corner that had survived purely out of stubbornness. He opened the fridge and considered his options.

Eggs.

Vegetables.

Bread that was still within acceptable risk range.

He leaned against the counter for a moment.

Food had always been..  inconsistent. Not dramatic. Not something he labeled. Just easy to forget when his mind latched onto something bigger. Excitement had a way of swallowing everything else.

But tonight felt like preparation.

He immediately pulled out a pan.

“Simple,” he murmured. “Just something simple.”

He cracked eggs carefully into a bowl and whisked them with more focus than necessary. He chopped vegetables with steady, precise movements. The knife against the cutting board created a rhythm that slowed his thoughts.

The hiss of the eggs hitting the pan was grounding, it almost felt calming.

The smell that followed; warm, familiar and certainly filled the small space.

He toasted bread and leaned against the counter while it browned, staring out the window at the city lights flickering on one by one. There was comfort in ordinary things. No expectations. No evaluation. Just process..

When the food was done, he plated it properly.

He carried the plate to his desk and sat down.

For a second, he just looked at it.

Not aesthetic, not styled, But warm.

“Fuel,” he said softly.

He ate slowly.

Not scrolling, not rereading the message, just preswnt.

Halfway through, his shoulders lowered without him realizing. The jittery edge softened.

Tomorrow.

He finished the plate and leaned back in his chair, hands resting loosely in his lap.

He stared at his studio for a moment and couldn't help but notice the details around it.

The scratches in the floor, the uneven nail in the wall, the stack of photo books near the window with pages slightly bent from overuse. Every inch of the space carried evidence of effort.

He had built this slowly.

Piece by piece.

And tomorrow, he would walk into a place that likely cost more per hour than his monthly rent.

The thought didn’t shrink him.

It sharpened him.

He imagined the studio: clean lines, lighting rigs suspended overhead, assistants moving efficiently. He imagined Shamil, stepping into the space like he belonged there.

.. Which he did.

Vaniel didn’t feel intimidated thinking about it now.

He just felt..curious

What did Shamil look like when he wasn’t performing? When he wasn’t arranged perfectly beneath studio lights? When he forgot to calculate the angle of his jaw?

A small smile tugged at Vaniel’s mouth.

If tomorrow was about direction, then he had one of his own

He tipped his chair back slightly and stared at the ceiling.

“Naturalistic style,” he repeated.

He could do that.

He had always done that.

His phone buzzed again—

Lily: On my way! Bring your worst outfit choices for elimination.

He smiled.

Tomorrow might change everything.

Or it might just be a simple meeting.

A conversation. A polite nod and probably a polite rejection?

Life had a way of humbling expectations.

But for once, he didn’t feel like he was scrambling to catch up to something already in motion.

He felt like he was stepping toward it.

He let the chair drop back onto all four legs and stood, moving toward his closet to begin the slow process of choosing something that said capable but not trying too hard.

“Alright,” he murmured to himself. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves this time.”

Chapter Text

Shamil absloutly hated mornings.

Not in the exaggerated way people claimed to hate them, groaning loudly before jumping out of bed five minutes later as if the performance itself gave them energy. No, Shamil hated mornings in a much quieter and more genuine way. The kind that made him lie perfectly still beneath the blankets with his eyes closed, hoping that if he refused to acknowledge the day, it might just leave him alone.

Unfortunately, time had never shown him that kind of mercy.

A faint buzzing sound filled the room, vibrating softly against the wooden surface of his nightstand. Of course.. his alarm.

Shamil groaned into his pillow before lazily reaching towards his phone. His fingers brushed his phone, nearly knocked over a small silver lamp, and finally managed to silence that damn alarm with a tap, the  loud buzzing sound finally stopped, leaving the room wrapped in a comfortable silence again.

Ah.. finally peace and quiet..

“Shamil.”

He blinked before he immediately shut his eyes closed again.

“Shamil,” the voice repeated, slightly firmer this time.

Nope! Not happening. 

A long silence followed, just when shamil felt himself relax again–

The curtains opened.

Blinding sunlight flooded the room so suddenly that Shamil shot upright like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him. He squinted toward the tall figure standing near the window, his expression twisted with pure betrayal.

“Sapphire..” he said hoarsely, voice still heavy with sleep, “.. one of these day I will fire you!!”

Sapphire didn’t even look remotely concerned. He leaned casually against the wall with his arms crossed, the purple highlights in his black hair catching the sunlight now filling the room.

“You say that every morning..”

“And every morning you continue to deserve it.”

He sighed before pulling out his ipad “You have a photoshoot today.”

The reminder settled slowly in Shamil’s mind.

.. Right.

The photoshoot.

Today was the day.

His expression changed ever so slightly, though most people would have missed it entirely. Sapphire, unfortunately, was not most people.

“You seem oddly awake.. werent you just complaining about—” Sapphire continued before he got caught off.

“I am always awake.” Shamil replied coolly.

“You slept for only four hours.”

“.. Four and a half.”

Sapphire raised an eyebrow.

Shamil swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up with the effortless elegance of someone who had spent years perfecting even the most unnecessary movements. His long blue hair slipped over his shoulders as he stretched lazily before walking toward the mirror across the room.

His reflection stared back at him immediately.

Perfect, as always.

Well.

Almost.

He leaned slightly closer, narrowing his eyes at the faint shadow beneath them. A tragic consequence of staying up late, though he would never admit that the reason behind it involved scrolling through the same photograph more times than any sane person should.

He straightened again, running a hand through his hair as if the problem had never existed.

“Cancel my afternoon meeting,” he said lazily.

“You don’t have one.”

“Good! That means you’ve already done your job!”

Sapphire sighed quietly.

“You chose the photographer yourself,” he reminded him. “Which means you cannot cancel this shoot at the last minute like last time.”

Shamil scoffed, already walking toward his wardrobe.

“.. As if I would.”

Sapphire tilted his head slightly, clearly unconvinced.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The wardrobe doors opened with a soft sound as Shamil scanned the neatly arranged rows of clothing. His fingers brushed across fabrics absentmindedly while he considered the day ahead.

“I chose him.. deliberately,” he said after a moment.

That part, at least, was true.

.. Technically.

“You know how repetitive fashion photography has become,” he continued lazily, pulling out a shirt and examining it under the light. “Same poses, same artificial lighting, same photographers trying far too hard to convince everyone they’re creative.. booo..”

Sapphire watched him carefully.

“.. And the bookstore photographer is somehow different?”

Shamil paused for only a moment before shrugging.

“I saw his work.”

“You saw like only one photograph..”

“Quality over quantity.”

“That photograph was taken unprofessionally..”

Shamil turned slowly, giving Sapphire a look that suggested the conversation was already dangerously close to becoming irritating.

“That,” he said as calm as he could, “is exactly why it’s interesting.”

Sapphire didn’t reply immediately.

Shamil walked past him toward the door as if the discussion had already been concluded.

“.. People who try too hard are utterly boring,” he continued smoothly. “People who don’t realize they’re talented yet are far more interesting.. They’re unpredictable..”

And unpredictability made things fun.

Sapphire studied him for another moment before shaking his head slightly.

“You are impossible.”

“I am visionary.” He said with a dramatic pose befkre walking again.

“.. You picked him because you liked his face.”

Shamil stopped walking.

Slowly, he turned his head, the expression he gave Sapphire sharp enough to freeze the room.

“I picked him,” he said coolly, “because his photography style is refreshingly honest.”

A moment passed.

Then he continued walking as if nothing had happened.

From the kitchen, Canei’s voice suddenly rang through the apartment.

“SHAMIL!! IF YOU DON’T COME EAT THIS RIGHT NOW I’M GIVING IT TO THE CAT.”

Shamil froze mid-step.

“That’s baiscally blackmail,” he called back.

“It’s breakfast!”

“.. That’s worse.”

Still, he turned toward the kitchen anyway.

Not because he was hungry, obviously. And certainly not because he needed energy for a certain photographer who would be spending an entire day looking at him.

Absolutely not.

By the time Shamil stepped into the kitchen, the smell of food had already taken over the apartment. Canei stood by the counter with her back to him, dramatically flipping something in a pan as if she were performing to impress shamil in any way. Her dirty white hair was pulled into two loose buns that was already falling apart, and she was wearing one of her usual red outfits — today it was an oversized sweater that looked like it had been stolen from a runway and aggressively customized with scissors.

Sapphire sat at the table with an ipad in his hands, scrolling through something with the calm patience of someone who had long accepted his role in managing chaos in this damn house.

Canei glanced over her shoulder the second she heard footsteps.

“Finally,” she said, pointing a spatula at Shamil dramatically. “His Highness finally has decided to grace us with his presence.”

Shamil slid into his chair lazily. “You should be honored.”

“Oh I’m quiet honored!” Canei replied flatly. “I woke up early. I cooked. I sacrificed my youth for this moment.”

“You’re literally twenty-two.”

“.. And exhausted.”

Sapphire didn’t even look up from his tablet. “You woke up at ten.”

“Ten is early for artists.”

“.. You are not exactly an artist.”

Canei gasped dramatically and turned back to the stove as if deeply wounded.

Shamil barely registered the argument. His eyes rested lazily on the plate that had been placed in front of him, though he didn’t immediately start eating. Instead he picked up his fork, poked at the food once, and then leaned back slightly in his chair.

His thoughts had already drifted somewhere else.

The studio.

The shoot.

The photographer.

He tried not to think about the bookstore again because it made things unnecessarily complicated in his head, but his brain clearly had other plans. Every now and then the image slipped back in anyway— pale hair catching the light from the window, those strange mismatched eyes looking straight at him like they had absolutely no idea who he was.

Which was ridiculous.

Of course he knew who Shamil was.

Everyone did.

Still..

Shamil tapped his fork lightly against the plate, barely noticing he was doing it.

What had Sapphire said his name was again?

.. Vaniel?

It was an unusual name but really easy to remember.

Across the table, Canei was in the middle of explaining something very passionately with her hands.

“And then the stylist told me the jacket wasn’t ‘dramatic enough’ which is insane because the jacket literally had flames embroidered on the sleeves—”

Shamil blinked slowly.

Flames?

Why were there flames?

“.. so obviously I told her that if she wanted drama she should have invited a theatre kid instead of a fashion assistant—”

He nodded slightly, though he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about anymore.

.. Vaniel.

It was probably going to be very awkward.

Not because Shamil was awkward.. he was never awkward.. but because people tended to become extremely strange around him once they realized who they were working with. Photographers especially.. they either tried too hard to impress him or spent the entire shoot nervously apologizing for things that didn’t matter.

He hoped Vaniel wouldn’t be like that.

The man had seemed..

.. Calm.

A little clueless maybe.

But calm.

“.. and then I said if she wanted more drama she could set the jacket on fire—”

“Shamil.” Sapphire rang out.

“.. mhm.” He hummed quietly.

“.. and that’s when security showed up!”

“Shamil.” Sapphire repeated again.

Another absent nod.

Canei suddenly stared at him.

Her eye twitched.

“HELLOOOOO????” she suddenly yelled, slamming both hands on the table to get his attention. “SHAMIL TO EARTH???? ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!”

Shamil blinked quickly.

The room snapped back into focus instantly.

Sapphire xouldnt help but burst out laughing.

Not a polite little chuckle either! an actual laugh that made him lean back in his chair as Canei pointed at Shamil like she had just caught him committing a crime.

“I KNEW IT,” she said triumphantly. “He hasn’t heard a single word I said!”

Shamil frowned slightly, offended by the accusation.

“.. I clearly heard you.”

“Oh really?” Canei crossed her arms. “Then what did I just say?”

He paused.

“.. something about flames?” He shrugged casually. 

Sapphire laughed harder.

Canei stared at him in pure disbelief.

“I was telling you a  whole STORY.”

“And I said was listening.”

“You were probably thinking about the shoot! Werent you?”

Shamil’s expression sharpened immediately.

“I was absloutly not.”

“You totally were,” she said, leaning across the table smugly. “Your face always does that thing.”

“My face does not absolutely do things!”

“It does! That thinking thing where you look like your thinking about someone! Like you did back then with sugar!”

Sapphire wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“She’s right,” he said calmly. “You’ve been staring at your plate for ten minutes.”

He gasped dramatically “I have not.”

“You tapped your fork exactly thirty-seven times.”

“why on earth would you count such–”

Shamil cut himself off before slowly putting the fork down.

“I am surrounded by abslout traitors.”

Canei groaned and dropped back into her chair dramatically.

“I spent fifteen minutes telling the most interesting story of my life and you were daydreaming about some stupid photographer that you met in some sort of bookstore!”

“.. I was not daydreaming, also how on earth did you know tha—”

“Oh my god he was daydreaming!”

“I was thinking about work!”

Sapphire raised an eyebrow.

“That is not any better.”

Shamil ignored both of them and finally started eating his breakfast, deciding the conversation had already wasted enough of his time.

Canei kept watching him suspiciously.

“.. you like him.” she suddenly smiled smugly.

Shamil nearly choked.

Sapphire’s smile returned instantly.

“I do not!” Shamil said sharply.

“You do.”

“I don’t even know him?!”

“That’s never stopped anyone before.”

Shamil shot her a glare.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Canei grinned.

“Your ears are red.”

“They aren't stop lying!”

Sapphire glanced up from his tablet.

“They are.”

Shamil stood up immediately.

“Well,” he announced suddenly, “breakfast was lovely but unfortunately I have a career to attend to.”

“Hey! You only ate three bites!” Canei said.

“Quality over quantity.”

“That’s not how food works!”

He ignored her and walked toward the hallway.

“Car leaves in twenty minutes,” Sapphire reminded him.

Shamil waved a hand lazily without looking back.

“Then I suppose you should both hurry.”

Behind him, Canei leaned closer to Sapphire and whispered loudly enough for Shamil to still hear.

“He’s nervous for the first timd in a millennial!”

“He’s curious,” Sapphire corrected calmly.

“Whateva.. same thing.”

By the time Shamil reached his room, he had already decided they were both extremely annoying.

Still..

They were the only friends he had.. not like he would admit it but he appreciated it.

As he changed into the carefully selected outfit for the shoot, he couldn’t stop a small smile from appearing when he thought about the studio for the first time.

And somewhere in that studio, there would be a photographer who had absolutely no idea what kind of chaos he had accidentally signed up for today.

Shamil closed the bedroom door behind him and leaned against it for a moment.

The apartment was quiet again, aside from the distant sound of Canei still complaining about something in the kitchen and Sapphire’s occasional, amused replies. Their voices blurred together into background noise. Comfortable noise.. familiar noises.

Still, the quiet in his room felt different.

He exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair before walking towards the bathroom.

The light flicked on with a soft click, bright and a little unforgiving.

The bathroom itself was exactly what one would expect from someone like him.. too clean, too polished, marble surfaces that reflected light like mirrors, shelves full of expensive products most people couldn’t even pronounce. Every detail looked curated and controlled. 

He leaned over the sink and turned on the water.

Cold.

The shock of it against his skin woke him up properly. He splashed his face once, then again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm before finally lifting his head.

And then he saw his horrible reflection.

Shamil stared at the mirror for a moment longer than necessary.

The bright bathroom lights were not flattering, they never were. Studio lights were designed carefully.. positioned, softened, angled in ways that you could almost see every pole on your skin.

They were honest.

.. Too honest.

His gaze drifted slowly across his own face.

The white bangs fell messily over his forehead, the longer blue strands trailing down his shoulders like pieces of sky someone had accidentally dropped onto him. One eye sharp, the other slightly softer, that forsaken scar cutting across the edge of it.

People called it attractive.

They always did.

They also called him perfect.

Which was strange, because perfection usually didn’t involve a scar across your eye or the constant suspicion that your face looked slightly different every morning.

He tilted his head a little to the side.

.. Was his jaw always that sharp?

.. Did his left eye look smaller today?

He leaned closer to the mirror.

Maybe the lighting was weird.

He leaned back again.

Or maybe he’s just tired.

That thought sat in his head for a moment longer than he liked.

Shamil clicked his tongue quietly and grabbed a towel, drying his face with unnecessary force.

“.. Ridiculous,” he muttered to his reflection.

The mirror didn’t argue.

Of course it didn’t.

He tossed the towel aside and walked back into the bedroom, already reaching for the outfit laid out neatly across the chair. Sapphire had probably chosen it earlier. Something modern, clean lines, expensive without looking like it was trying too hard.

Black coat.

Structured shirt.

Accessories minimal but intentional.

It took him less than five minutes to change.

By the time he finished adjusting the collar and brushing his hair back into place, the person staring back at him from the mirror again looked exactly like the man everyone expected.

Confident, sharp, untouchable and perfect.

Much better.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and headed back toward the living room.

Canei was already pacing near the door, checking the time on her watch like someone preparing for battle.

“You took foreverrrr!” she said immediately.

“I only took 10 minutes.”

“You were in there staring at yourself again, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sapphire stood by the window, already dressed in his usual dark suit, tablet tucked under one arm.

“The car is downstairs,” he said calmly. “We should leave now if we want to avoid traffic.”

Shamil slipped his dark indigo-coloured coat on.

“Let’s not waste any time then.”

The ride to the studio was quiet.

Canei scrolled through her phone for half the trip while Sapphire reviewed something on his tablet, occasionally sending messages to people who were probably already panicking about the shoot schedule.

Shamil looked out the window.

The city passed by in familiar flashes.. glass buildings reflecting the morning sun, people rushing across streets, billboards with faces he recognized far too well.

One of them was his.

Huge.

Perfectly lit.

Perfectly composed.

He looked away from it after a second.

By the time the car pulled up to the studio building, the small knot of curiosity that had been sitting in his chest since breakfast had grown just enough to be noticeable.

Annoying.

He stepped out of the car first.

The studio building was already awake. Assistants moved in and out of the entrance carrying equipment, coffee cups, bags, pieces of clothing wrapped in protective covers. Someone nearly tripped over a lighting stand while arguing on the phone.

Normal chaos.

The moment people noticed him arriving, the energy shifted slightly.

It always did.

Whispers.

Quick glances.

Someone suddenly fixing their posture.

Shamil ignored all of it and walked inside just drinking his coffee unbothered.

They are acting like he owned the place!

Well which, technically, he did.

But that had never stopped him before.

The main studio doors were already open.

Inside, large lights hung from metal rigs overhead, cables snaking across the floor like lazy black vines. Assistants moved between them, adjusting equipment, testing angles, carrying reflectors bigger than their body.

Someone noticed him first.

“Oh – Mr. Shamil! Good morning!”

He nodded politely.

“Morning.”

Sapphire moved ahead to speak with the production team while Canei disappeared almost instantly toward the wardrobe racks like always.

Shamil stayed near the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes wander across the space.

And then—

He saw him.

Vaniel stood near one of the camera setups, his back half-turned, adjusting something on the tripod with careful hands. Pale hair fell loosely over his shoulders, catching the studio lights in soft strands that almost looked silver from a distance.

He looked.. different from the bookstore.

More focused.

Less distracted.

Still wearing that comfortable, slightly messy style that made him look like he had wandered into the wrong building by accident.

Shamil watched him quietly for a second.

Vaniel turned slightly.

Their eyes met.

For just a moment.

Recognition flickered instantly across Vaniel’s face.

Shamil tilted his head a little, studying him in return.

Then Vaniel did something unexpected.

He smiled at him.

Not a nervous smile.

Not a polite industry smile.

an actually genuine one.

And for reasons Shamil absolutely could not explain—

His heart skipped.

Just once.

Right before Vaniel opened his mouth and said the first words that would completely ruin Shamil’s ability to pretend today was just another ordinary shoot.

“Good morning!” Vaniel said kindly.

Then he glanced at Shamil’s face, squinted slightly, and added —

“.. did you sleep?”

Chapter Text

Shamil blinked.

Not because the question was confusing.

Just.. because it was ridiculous.

He had walked into a professional studio, surrounded by assistants, stylists, lighting technicians, and people who were probably paid an alarming amount of money to care about his face structure. 

Normally the greetings were predictable.

Good morning, Mr. Shamil.

We’re honored to work with you today.

Nervous laughter.

Maybe someone apologizing for existing in his general direction.

Instead, the first thing the photographer said to him was—

Did you sleep?

What kind of question was that?

He stared at Vaniel for a moment longer than necessary, trying to decide if the man was joking, stupid, or somehow both.

“..What an odd thing to ask someone you just greeted,” Shamil said finally, tilting his head slightly.

Vaniel didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked thoughtful.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “only the ones who look like they stayed up reading philosophy until three in the morning.”

Shamil’s eyebrow lifted.

“Is that what you think I was doing?”

Vaniel hummed thoughtfully.

“Either that.. or staring at the ceiling and contemplating the crushing weight of existence.”

“.. You’ve known me for thirty seconds today.”

“Yes,” Vaniel said cheerfully, “but I’m very observant.”

Shamil felt something suspiciously close to a laugh try to escape his throat.

He shut that down immediately.

Absolutely not.

He had a reputation to maintain.

For a brief, sharp moment he considered firing the man on the spot.

Unfortunately, he had chosen this photographer himself, which made the situation slightly inconvenient.

Annoying.

Still.. he studied Vaniel again, a little more carefully this time.

Vaniel looked exactly the same as he had two days ago in the bookstore. Pale hair slightly messy, comfortable clothes that clearly prioritized practicality over fashion, and a camera strap slung across his shoulder like it had always belonged there.

But the energy was different.

In the bookstore he had felt.. more distracted.

Here, he looked.. more focused.

Annoyingly calm.

And those eyes.. Shamil hadn’t imagined it.

They were still mismatched, just like his.

It was sorta distracting..

Shamil clicked his tongue softly.

Focus!

This was work!

Vaniel adjusted something on the camera, turning a dial before glancing up again.

“..So,” he said lightly, “did you?”

Shamil blinked.

“Did I what?”

“.. Sleep?”

Shamil narrowed his eyes slightly 

“.. You’re very persistent.” 

“I’m only curious!”

“That’s rarely a good trait.”

Vaniel shrugged.

“Maybe! But it makes photography more interesting.”

That answer lingered for a moment longer than expected.

Shamil glanced around the studio briefly.

Assistants were still moving lights into position. Someone tested a reflector with a blinding flash. Across the room, Canei was aggressively explaining to a stylist why dramatic sleeves were a fundamental necessity of modern art.

Everything looked organized.

Professional.

Exactly how a high-profile shoot should look.

And yet the photographer in charge of all this was standing in front of him asking about his sleep schedule like they were two friends chatting over coffee.

Shamil tilted his head slightly.

“.. Four hours,” he admitted slowly.

Vaniel blinked.

“Seriously?”

“Four and a half,” Shamil corrected.

Vaniel winced sympathetically. “Ah.. that explains the eyes..”

Shamil immediately regretted answering.

“My eyes are fine.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.”

“You implied it.”

Vaniel lifted both hands defensely.

“I implied that you look tired! That is completely different.”

Shamil studied him for a moment.

Most people would have backtracked by now.

Most people would have panicked the moment he started looking mildly annoyed.

Vaniel didn’t do either of those things.

He just stood there calmly, waiting, completely comfortable.

.. How irritating.

“Hm,” Shamil said finally. “You’re very direct.”

Vaniel blinked.

“Oh—! I‐I'm Sorry.. was that rude?”

“Yes,” Shamil replied flatly.

“.. Oh.”

There was a small pause.

Vaniel rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, pale hair slipping over his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “.. I just notice things.”

Shamil raised an eyebrow.

“That is literally the job description of a photographer.”

Vaniel laughed quietly.

The sound surprised him.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic or attention-seeking.

Just.. genuine.

It echoed lightly in the large studio space where assistants were still moving equipment around them.

Shamil noticed, somewhat annoyingly, that Vaniel had already turned back to the camera, adjusting the lens with careful precision.

Like their conversation had never been tense to begin with.

Then suddenly Vaniel clapped his hands together once.

“Alright then.. We have some good news!”

Shamil frowned slightly

“What good news?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be energetic!”

Shamil blinked again.

“I wasn’t planning to..?”

“Perfect! That makes my job easier.”

Shamil leaned slightly against one of the nearby tables, folding his arms.

“.. And what exactly is your job today?” he asked.

Vaniel looked at him with that irritatingly calm smile again.

“The goal,” he said, resting one hand lightly on the camera, “is to make you forget there’s a camera in the room!”

Shamil scoffed quietly.

Was this man serious?

“That sounds impossible.”

“Hmm.. your right. It usually is!”

“Then why attempt it?”

Vaniel adjusted the camera strap on his shoulder.

“Because when people forget they’re being watched.. that’s when the interesting things happen.”

The answer was simple.

Too simple, maybe.

But something about the way he said it made Shamil pause.

He had spent years in front of cameras.

Years learning how to control every tiny detail. The angle of his jaw, the tilt of his chin, the exact way to position his shoulders so the lighting caught the sharp lines of his cheekbones just right.

Photoshoots weren’t accidents.

They were choreography.

Every expression, every shift of posture, every blink was calculated. Controlled.

That was the point.

And yet—

“.. You don’t like control, right?” Shamil observed slowly.

Vaniel looked up from the tripod he was adjusting and shook his head immediately.

“Oh no, I love control!”

That answer actually caught Shamil off guard.

“.. You do?”

“Of course!” Vaniel said, crouching slightly to adjust the height of the tripod legs. “Cameras are all about control. Exposure, focus, timing—if you mess those up you just get a blurry disaster!”

He tightened one of the knobs, stood up again, and stepped back to look at the setup.

“.. But,” he added casually, “too much control makes people look like mannequins.”

Shamil glanced at the lighting rigs overhead.

“They’re here for a reason.”

“Of course they are,” Vaniel said calmly.

He stepped back, studying the setup for a moment.

Then he looked back at Shamil again.

For some reason, that calm smile was still there.

“.. But they’re tools,” he added. “Not the whole story.”

Shamil considered that.

Most photographers loved to lecture about lighting techniques or camera models or how lucky he was that his bone structure existed.

This one was talking about mannequins.

Strange man.

Before Shamil could respond, a familiar stylist hurried past them carrying a jacket.

And then—

A familiar voice burst into the space.

“Your first outfit is ready!”

Canei appeared beside Shamil so suddenly it felt like she had teleported.

She stopped mid-step when she noticed Vaniel.

“Oh!”

Her eyes lit up immediately.

“You’re the photographer!”

Vaniel blinked at the sudden attention. “.. Yes?”

Canei leaned closer, examining him with intensity.

“I like your hair,” she finally declared.

Vaniel looked slightly confused.

“Um.. thank you?”

She nodded once, firmly.

“Good! You pass the vibe check.”

Shamil pinched the bridge of his nose.

He had worked with Canei long enough to know that questioning her logic was pointless.

Before either of them could react to that statement, she immediately grabbed Shamil’s arm.

“Come on,” she said, already pulling him toward the wardrobe racks across the studio. “We need to get you dressed.”

Shamil didn’t move at first.

“Why does that sound threatening?”

“Because,” Canei replied cheerfully, “we have to put you in something tragic before we get to the good outfits.”

Shamil frowned slowly.

“..Tragic.”

“It’s fashion.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Canei ignored him completely and continued dragging him across the studio floor anyways.

Assistants stepped aside automatically as they passed.

Halfway to the wardrobe area, Shamil glanced back over his shoulder.

Vaniel had already returned to the camera.

He was adjusting the lens now, movements slow and careful, completely absorbed in what he was doing.

No dramatic instructions. No unnecessary chatter.

Just quiet focus.

For someone who had spent the last ten minutes accusing him of looking exhausted..

He seemed strangely energetic.

Shamil frowned slightly.

That small, irritating spark of curiosity returned again.

He hated that feeling.

It was inconvenient.

Unnecessary.

And definitely not the result of some photographer with mismatched eyes and an annoying habit of asking personal questions.

Shamil looked away again with a small scoff.

Ridiculous.

Still—

As Canei continued dragging him toward the wardrobe racks, he found himself glancing back one more time.

Vaniel hadn’t noticed.

Which, for some reason, was even more irritating.

Ugh.

Damn him.

...

Ten minutes later, Shamil stepped back onto the set.

The stylists had clearly decided to prove a point.

A long charcoal coat fell cleanly over his shoulders, the fabric structured just enough to sharpen the line of his frame without looking stiff. Underneath, a black shirt hugged his torso in that annoyingly precise way only expensive tailoring could manage.

Severe, sleek, expensive as always.

Exactly the kind of outfit fashion houses loved putting him in.

Shamil rolled his shoulders once, feeling the weight of the coat settle properly.

Across the studio, Vaniel looked up from the camera.

And then—

He just stared.

For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything.

Shamil noticed immediately.

After years of photoshoots, you developed a sense for these things, silence like that wasn’t empty. It meant someone was observing something very carefully, and shamil definitely didn't like that.

“.. What?” Shamil asked flatly.

Vaniel blinked.

“.. Oh, uhm..”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“.. Nothing.”

Shamil narrowed his eyes.

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

Vaniel hesitated.

For a moment, it genuinely looked like he might dodge the question entirely.

Then—

“.. You look very uncomfortable.”

The air in the studio shifted.

Someone quietly stopped adjusting a reflector.

No one said things like that to Shamil.

Not during a shoot.

Not ever, really.

Shamil’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“I’m not.”

Vaniel didn’t argue.

Instead, he lowered the camera slightly and walked a little closer.

Not invading his space of course, Just close enough to observe him properly.

“Hm,” he murmured quietly.

Shamil’s patience thinned.

“Stop doing that.”

Vaniel glanced up.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

For a moment Vaniel just stared at him.

Then something in his expression shifted.

“Oh—!”

He immediately lowered the camera.

“Sorry!”

A faint flush crept across his face like he had only just realized how intensely he’d been staring at him.

Shamil felt the corner of his mouth threaten to move.

Almost a smile.

Almost.

He suppressed it instantly.

Vaniel quickly lifted the camera again awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“.. Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s actually start this time.”

Shamil moved to the marked position on the floor.

He had done this hundreds of times before.

Maybe thousands..

The lighting crew adjusted the overhead rigs slightly. Warm studio light settled across the set like artificial sunlight. Assistants quietly moved into their positions around the room, conversations fading into silence.

Within seconds, the entire space stilled.

Vaniel raised the camera and looked through the viewfinder.

He didn’t take the shot.

Shamil noticed.

Of course he did.

“.. What are you waiting for?” he asked.

Vaniel lowered the camera slightly.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said.

Then, after a short pause—

“I’m just waiting for you to stop posing like that.”

Shamil blinked. “..I’m a model?”

Vaniel didn’t answer.

He simply watched him again, calm and patient.

Shamil gestured vaguely around the studio.

The lights. The assistants. The racks of clothing worth more than most people’s rent.

“I’m posing for a reason,” he said dryly. “This is an ad campaign, every angle here exists to sell a product.”

He tapped the edge of his coat.

“It’s why I—”

He paused deliberately, emphasizing each word.

“—hired you.”

A nearby assistant nearly dropped a box of props.

Apparently blunt statements were still considered illegal in Shamil’s presence.

Vaniel hummed thoughtfully.

“Fair.”

Then he lifted the camera again.

“But right now,” he added, peering through the lens, “you’re holding everything too tightly.”

Shamil’s frown deepened. “..Of course I am, that’s literally my job.”

Vaniel smiled faintly behind the camera. “Exactly, that’s what I want to disappear.”

Shamil stared at him.

Slowly.

Carefully.

“I hired a photographer,” he said, incredulous, “to take my picture for a professional campaign.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re telling me I’m supposed to act like I’m not posing.”

Vaniel’s smile softened slightly.

“Not act,” he said. “Just relax into it.”

Shamil folded his arms.

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Vaniel tilted his head slightly.

“.. You argue a lot for someone who claims he slept four hours.”

Shamil narrowed his eyes.

“You’re very bold for someone I can still fire.”

Vaniel didn’t even flinch.

Instead he raised the camera again.

“Relax,” he said gently. “Let it look effortless.”

Shamil opened his mouth to argue again.

The shutter clicked.

Once.

Shamil blinked.

Vaniel took another photo.

Click.

And another.

Click.

Shamil hadn’t even moved!

He hadn’t even started posing properly yet.

By the third photo, he frowned.

By the fourth—

Something occurred to him.

Something mildly alarming.

He didn’t actually know what the camera was seeing.

Not because he couldn’t guess.

Logically, it was probably capturing exactly what the assistants and stylists had spent the last hour preparing. The lighting. The clothes. The angle.

But something felt.. off.

Usually, by now, he would be adjusting things automatically. Thinking about the tilt of his jaw, the exact placement of his shoulders, the subtle movements that turned a person into a perfect photograph.

But he wasn’t doing that.

He wasn’t calculating anything.

He wasn’t performing.

Vaniel clicked the shutter again.

for the first time—

Shamil realized he had no idea what expression he was making, probably a dumbfounded one.

Shamil’s eyes flicked toward the photographer again.

Vaniel was still watching him through the viewfinder, one eye closed, the other focused with quiet intensity. There was a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, like he was concentrating on something small and important.

His movements were careful.

Deliberate.

Almost painfully precise.

And yet there was something.. soft about the way he worked. He wasn’t barking instructions at assistants or obsessively rearranging lights every thirty seconds like most photographers did. He wasn’t circling Shamil like a hawk waiting for a mistake.

He simply watched.

Adjusted.

Waited.

It was infuriatingly competent.

And somehow even more irritatingly patient.

“Hold it there,” Vaniel said quietly.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried that strange, stubborn certainty that made Shamil freeze before he even thought about it.

Shamil looked down briefly.

At some point, his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

“.. Hold what exactly?” he asked flatly, even though he knew perfectly well what Vaniel meant.

“The position.”

Vaniel lowered the camera slightly and squinted at him, the studio lights catching in his pale hair in a way that made him look almost unfairly soft.

“Relax your shoulders,” he added.

Shamil didn’t move.

“Loosen the jaw.”

Still nothing.

“Don’t think about the pose,” Vaniel finished. “Just.. exist there.”

Shamil blinked.

Exist.

He had been in hundreds of photoshoots.

Thousands of photos.

And not once - not once - had someone told him to just exist.

Usually the room was full of commands.

Chin up.

More intensity.

Turn left.

Give me mysterious.

Give me dangerous.

Give me slightly sad but still expensive.

He let out a quiet scoff.

“You realize you’re basically asking me to ignore my entire career, right?” Shamil said, voice low.

Vaniel raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a professional,” Shamil continued dryly. “I pose professionally.”

He gestured vaguely at himself.

“I am essentially the physical embodiment of posing.”

Vaniel didn’t look impressed.

“Good,” he said calmly.

Then he lifted the camera again.

“Now un-embody it.”

Shamil just stared at him.

“..Please,” Vaniel added politely.

Shamil gritted his teeth.

Fine.

If this man wanted existence or ehatever he calls it, he would get it.

He inhaled slowly, counting the seconds between breaths like he was defusing a bomb, and tried to *exist*. He let his shoulders fall slightly. He loosened the jaw — not completely - but enough to make the difference noticeable.

 He allowed his gaze to relax a fraction.

Well.. not completely.

He wasn’t a miracle worker.

Vaniel hummed softly.

Then the shutter clicked.

And again.

And then Vaniel smiled.

Not a big smile, not the kind of people who used when they wanted attention.

Just a small, satisfied little curve of his mouth.

For some reason, that tiny expression sent an oddly warm, uncomfortable feeling straight through Shamil’s chest.

Shamil frowned.

“.. Are you smiling at me?” Shamil asked, voice sharper than intended.

Vaniel paused mid-motion, camera halfway raised.

“I.. am assessing lighting,” he said quickly.

Shamil stared at him.

The faint upward curve of Vaniel’s lips betrayed him immediately.

Shamil rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away. He crossed his arms again, a little stiffly, and tried to focus on anything.

Preferably something that wasn’t the way Vaniel’s mismatched eyes seemed to catch every microscopic change in his expression.

“Stop moving.”

The command came suddenly.

Calm.

Firm.

Shamil obeyed instantly.

Only afterward did he realize he had been shifting his weight slightly the entire time.

Almost unconsciously.

“Damn you,” he muttered under his breath.

Vaniel’s head tilted slightly, he probably heard that.

He just chose not to react.

Which was arguably worse.

A beat passed.

“Okay,” Vaniel said, finally lowering the camera and stepping back. “Now.. tilt your head very slightly, not too much. Just enough to soften the line of your jaw.”

Shamil did it perfectly on the first attempt, which made him feel mildly vindicated.

Vaniel hummed softly.

“Good, now blink,” Vaniel added.

Shamil raised an eyebrow.

“..Not aggressively,” Vaniel clarified.

“..That was one time.”

“Slowly,” Vaniel continued calmly. “Naturally.”

Shamil obeyed before the shutter clicked again.

Vaniel looked at the screen briefly.

“See? That’s interesting,” Vaniel said softly, almost to himself. “Much more human.”

Shamil’s mouth twitched.

That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.

He ignored it, He always ignored them anyways.

“.. Are you done talking now?” shamil asked flatly.

Vaniel tilted his head, pale hair catching the studio lights, and squinted slightly. “Not yet. But feel free to ask me to shut up anytime.”

Shamil considered it.

For a full two seconds.

No.

That would technically be rude..

And also–

Annoyingly—

he didn’t actually want him to stop.

Which was unacceptable for him.

So instead, Shamil said nothing.

He simply stood there while Vaniel adjusted the camera again, watching him with that infuriatingly calm focus.

And as irritating as the entire situation was…

There was something about the way Vaniel directed the shoot that didn’t make Shamil want to scream.

The room was quiet.

Steady.

Almost peaceful.

The chaos of assistants and stylists faded into the background.

Vaniel’s voice stayed calm.

Patient.

And somehow—

Shamil hated admitting this even internally—

It was.. comfortable.

Shamil immediately decided that was a problem.

A very serious problem.

And it was absolutely Vaniel’s fault.

Shamil straightened his coat again, crossing his arms with a sharp edge to his posture.

He didn’t like feeling unprepared. He didn’t like feeling exposed. And yet.. something about the way Vaniel moved around him, calm, precise, unshaken by his theatrics, made him feel.. off-balance.

Which was irritating.

He hated being irritated.

And somehow, against all logic, he was curious.

Curious about what Vaniel would do next. Curious about how he was capturing these photos that — he refused to admit — looked far better than they had any right to. Curious about why he couldn’t stop noticing the slight crease at the corner of Vaniel’s mouth when he adjusted the camera.

Shamil rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. “.. Ridiculous.”

Vaniel, of course, didn’t respond. He just adjusted the lens again, silent and focused, like Shamil’s muttering was background noise he didn’t even register.

Which made it worse.

Shamil let out a long, frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Ugh..This is going to be a long day,” he said flatly.

Vaniel finally looked up. Calm, observant, faintly amused. 

“..It always is with you,” he said softly.

Shamil froze for a fraction of a second.

And then he spun back toward the set, voice sharp and dripping sarcasm. “..Don’t get used to that tone.”

Vaniel didn’t argue. He just raised the camera, ready to capture the next moment.

Shamil’s chest tightened slightly, not from nerves, not really — but from the weird, unwelcome curiosity that had taken root somewhere behind his carefully controlled facade.

He glared at Vaniel. 

Hard.

Because Shamil didn’t do uncertainty.

Shamil didn’t do confusion. 

And he certainly didn’t do.. intrigue.

Yet here he was.

And somehow, he hated that.

The click of the camera echoed softly across the studio.

Chapter Text

It had been two days since the photoshoot.

Two very long, strangely quiet days.

Vaniel was sitting in the worn desk chair in his small apartment, leaning forward slightly as the soft glow of his monitor illuminated the room. Outside the window, the city had already settled into midnight silence. Most of the lights in the neighboring buildings were dark, and the street below looked calm and distant, like the world had decided it was finished with the day.

Vaniel, however, was not.

He rarely was.

Editing always happened at night. It had become a habit years ago, something he had grown comfortable with. The quiet helped him focus, and the absence of people meant there was no one around to interrupt the slow, careful rhythm he preferred when working.

The photos from the shoot filled the screen in front of him.

And unfortunately.. the subject of those photos was Shamil.

Vaniel leaned back slightly in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small sigh.

He really, really hoped he hadn't

embarrassed himself.

The memory of the shoot kept replaying in the back of his mind in small, unhelpful flashes. The way he had reached out without thinking to adjust Shamil’s shoulder. The dramatic reaction that followed. The assistants suddenly becoming very quiet in the background.

Vaniel groaned softly and dragged one hand down his face.

“Please tell me I didn't actually say that out loud,” he muttered to himself.

Unfortunately, he had.

He remembered it clearly now.

Did you sleep?

Of all the things he could have said to one of the most famous models in the industry, that was what had come out of his mouth.

Vaniel stared at the screen for a moment, feeling a faint wave of embarrassment creep up again.

“Brilliant,” he said quietly. “Absolutely brilliant work, Vaniel.”

Still, atleast the photos were good.

Very good, actually!

He leaned forward again, resting one elbow on the desk as he adjusted the brightness of one of the images. The editing software responded instantly, sharpening the contrast just enough to bring out the subtle lines of light across Shamil’s face.

Vaniel paused.

Even after two days of editing, it was still strange seeing the photos like this.

Shamil had always been known for looking flawless in front of a camera. Every photo campaign he appeared in was polished, dramatic, perfectly controlled. That was part of what made him famous.

But the images on Vaniel’s screen felt different.

They looked more.. real.

Vaniel clicked to the next photo.

In this one, Shamil’s posture was slightly relaxed, the heavy structure of the charcoal coat falling naturally around his frame. His shoulders weren't stiff the way they usually were in advertisements, and his expression wasn’t the carefully crafted look of someone posing for a magazine cover.

It was something quieter.

Something thoughtful.

Vaniel studied the image carefully.

The lighting had caught in Shamil’s hair perfectly, turning the long blue strands into soft reflections that reminded him faintly of the sky just before sunset. The white bangs fell slightly across his forehead, just enough to frame the scar near his eye without hiding it completely.

Vaniel had noticed the scar immediately during the shoot.

Most photographers would probably try to soften it with lighting or angles.

Vaniel hadn’t.

It added character to the photos.

And of course, it suited Shamil.

Vaniel clicked again.

The next image zoomed in slightly closer, capturing the subtle details of Shamil’s face. His mismatched eyes were especially striking under the studio lights, one slightly sharper than the other as he looked past the camera.

Vaniel blinked.

Then leaned forward a little.

“.. Huh.”

He stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.

Shamil really did have interesting eyes.

Not just the colors. The way they moved. The way his expression changed in tiny, almost invisible ways between shots. It made editing strangely enjoyable, because every photo had a slightly different feeling.

Vaniel zoomed in slightly, adjusting the sharpness.

And that was when he noticed something else.

Shamil’s curls.

During the shoot, they had been carefully styled into place by the assistants, but the lighting had caught a few loose strands that softened the otherwise sharp look of the outfit.

Vaniel tilted his head slightly as he examined the photo.

“That's.. actually really nice,” he murmured to himself.

He moved the cursor again, adjusting the shadows near the jawline.

Then he stopped.

His eyes drifted back to the screen.

Then back again.

“..Okay,” he said slowly.

Why was he suddenly noticing so many details?

Vaniel leaned back in his chair again, folding his arms loosely as he stared at the monitor.

There were the eyes.

The hair.

The scar.

The curls.

And—very briefly—his attention had lingered on the shape of Shamil’s mouth before he quickly looked away from the screen like the image might accuse him of something.

Vaniel blinked twice.

Then sat up straighter.

“No,” he said firmly.

Absolutely not.

That was not happening.

He turned back toward the screen and pointed at it accusingly.

“We are working,” he informed his brain. “This is professional editing.”

The photo stared back at him silently.

Vaniel narrowed his eyes slightly.

“You are a photographer,” he continued. “of course you would notice details! That is literally your job!”

The image remained extremely unhelpful.

Vaniel exhaled slowly and rubbed his temples.

“Bad Vaniel!” he muttered. “Very bad Vaniel.”

The last thing he needed was to start developing feelings for someone like Shamil.

Not only was that completely ridiculous, it was also deeply inconvenient.

His last relationship had already been more than enough trouble to last several lifetimes. Ever since then, he had promised himself that he wasn’t going to involve himself in anything like that again.

Work was simpler.

Photography made sense.

And people.. usually didn’t.

Vaniel glanced at the clock on the corner of his screen.

2:43 AM.

He sighed softly.

“Right,” he said, turning back toward the keyboard. “Focus.”

The photos needed to be finished by tomorrow.

And if he didn’t stop staring at Shamil’s face like he was analyzing a painting, that definitely wasn’t going to happen.

Vaniel cracked his knuckles lightly and reopened the editing tools.

The next image appeared on the screen.

He's still a bit mad at himself that he didn't finish this yesterday, he had plenty of time after all!

A few more hours passed.

Vaniel wasn’t really entirely sure how many.

That happened often when he worked. Time had a habit of dissolving when he was editing photos, especially when he got caught in the quiet rhythm of it — the small adjustments, the careful corrections, the slow process of bringing an image exactly where he wanted it to be.

At some point, the room had grown darker, the monitor becoming the only real light in the apartment. The window beside his desk reflected a faint mirror of the screen now, and the city outside looked even quieter than before.

Vaniel leaned closer to the desk, squinting slightly as he adjusted the color balance on another photo. His fingers moved automatically across the keyboard, clicking through the editing tools with the familiarity of someone who had done this far too many nights in a row.

The images were almost finished.

He had narrowed them down to a small collection of the strongest shots from the shoot. Some were dramatic and sharp, the kind that would work well for the official campaign. Others were softer, quieter moments he had captured between poses.

Vaniel paused on one of them.

Shamil wasn’t looking at the camera in this one.

Instead, his gaze was turned slightly to the side, his posture relaxed in a way that felt almost accidental. The lighting had caught his mismatched eyes at just the right angle, and the scar near his eye was visible without being harsh.

Vaniel stared at the screen for a moment.

“..That one’s good,” he murmured quietly.

He adjusted the shadows once more, then leaned back in his chair.

That was when the exhaustion started creeping in properly.

At first it was just the familiar heaviness in his eyes, the kind that came after hours of staring at a bright screen. Vaniel blinked a few times and rubbed the bridge of his nose before leaning forward again.

Just a few more edits.

That was all.

He dragged the cursor to another photo and began adjusting the contrast again, trying to focus on the tiny details that usually kept his attention sharp.

But his thoughts were starting to blur together now.

The room was too quiet.

The chair was starting to be a littile bit TOO comfortable.

Vaniel rested his elbow on the desk and supported his chin in his hand while the program processed the last adjustment.

Just a few seconds.

That was all he needed.

His eyes closed for a moment.

Then immediately opened again.

Vaniel blinked slowly at the screen, trying to gather his concentration. The image in front of him looked slightly softer now, though that might have just been because he hadn’t blinked enough in the last hour.

“Stay awake,” he muttered quietly.

He stretched his shoulders, then leaned forward again to finish the last few corrections.

But the moment his hands rested on the desk, the exhaustion won.

Vaniel didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep.

His head slowly tipped forward until it rested against his folded arms on the desk, pale hair spilling across the keyboard as the glow of the monitor continued shining quietly above him.

The editing program remained open.

Shamil’s photograph stayed on the screen.

For a while, Vaniel actually felt relaxed.

Then—

BUZZ.

A sudden vibration against the desk broke the silence.

Vaniel stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.

BUZZ.

The phone vibrated again, louder this time as it shifted across the wooden surface of the desk.

Vaniel groaned softly and lifted his head halfway, squinting toward the sound with blurry, unfocused eyes.

“.. Huh?”

He blinked slowly, trying to remember where he was.

The monitor light hurt his eyes slightly now.

His phone buzzed once more.

Vaniel reached for it blindly, knocking a pen off the desk in the process before finally grabbing the device.

He reached out for his glasses before the screen lit up with a new message.

.. Lily?

Vaniel squinted at the notification for a moment before unlocking the phone.

Lily:

“Are you still awake?”

Another message appeared immediately after.

Lily:

“Actually don’t answer that, You’re definitely still editing as always.”

Vaniel let out a quiet breath through his nose.

Lily knew him far too well.

A third message appeared.

Lily:

“Did you eat yet? Please tell me you did.”

Vaniel stared at the screen.

Then glanced vaguely toward the kitchen.

Which was dark.

Very dark.

He frowned slightly before sighing softly.

Of course he didn't.

Another message appeared.

Lily:

“Vaniel, You forgot again didn’t you?”

Vaniel groaned softly and slowly typed back.

Vaniel:

“I was working.”

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Lily:

“That’s not what I asked.”

Vaniel rubbed his face with one hand, trying to wake himself up properly now.

His hair was a mess, his neck hurt from sleeping on the desk, and the editing software was still open in front of him.

Lily sent another message.

Lily:

“How was the photoshoot with mister famous cheek-bones?”

Vaniel blinked at the phone.

He glanced back at the screen, where one of the edited photos of Shamil was still open.

Vaniel hesitated for a moment before typing.

Vaniel:

“It went well”

Lily:

“That is the most suspicious answer you could possibly give.”

Vaniel huffed softly.

Vaniel:

“It really did go well! Im not lying!”

Another pause.

Lily:

“Vaniel, Did you embarrass yourself again?”

Vaniel stared at the message.

Then slowly leaned back in his chair.

Vaniel:

“.. Maybe a little,”

The phone buzzed again almost immediately.

Lily:

“I KNEW IT!”

Vaniel couldn’t help smiling faintly at that.

Despite the exhaustion pulling at his thoughts, Lily’s messages always had a way of grounding him again.

He glanced back at the monitor one more time.

Shamil’s photo was still there, illuminated by the soft glow of the screen.

Vaniel tilted his head slightly.

“..They came out really well,” he murmured.

Then he typed one more message.

Vaniel:

“But the photos turned out really good!”

A moment later, Lily responded.

Lily:

“Of course they did, it always does if it means you picturing it. And don't forget to eat something and go to sleep before you fall over.”

Vaniel looked at the clock in the corner of his screen.

4:18 AM.

He stared at it for a moment.

“.. That’s probably a good idea,” he admitted.

But instead of closing the program immediately, his eyes drifted back toward the photo again.

Eat something and go to sleep before you fall over.

That was very reasonable advice.

Unfortunately, Vaniel had never been particularly good at following reasonable advice when work was involved.

He leaned back in his chair slightly and glanced at the monitor again, where the half-finished gallery of photos was still open. Rows of carefully edited images filled the screen—Shamil standing beneath the studio lights, Shamil adjusting the sleeve of a coat, Shamil looking somewhere just past the camera with that quiet, thoughtful expression Vaniel had accidentally captured.

There were only a few left to polish.

Technically, he could sleep.

He didn’t have to send the final files until tomorrow evening.

There would be plenty of time!

Vaniel looked at the clock again.

4:21 AM.

Then he looked back at the screen.

“.. Or,” he murmured thoughtfully, “I could just finish them.. now!”

That would be smarter.

Yes!

Much smarter.

If he finished everything tonight, tomorrow would be stress-free! No rushing, no last-minute adjustments, no worrying about whether something still needed fixing.

Vaniel nodded once to himself, fully convinced by his own reasoning.

“Right,” he said quietly, setting his phone aside. “Just a few more.”

He reopened the editing panel and returned to work.

...

A few more hours passed.

Vaniel, once again, had absolutely no idea how many.

The world outside the window slowly shifted from dark to gray without him noticing. The faint glow of early morning crept over the rooftops of the city while his apartment remained silent except for the soft clicking of keys and the occasional hum of the computer processing an edit.

The photos were nearly done.

Vaniel leaned closer to the screen, squinting slightly as he fine-tuned the lighting on one of the final images. His shoulders felt stiff now, and his eyelids were heavier than before, but the rhythm of editing kept him moving.

Click.

Adjust contrast.

Click.

Lower the highlights.

Click.

Save.

Another photo appeared.

Then another.

Eventually, only one image remained.

Vaniel stared at it for a moment.

“.. Okay,” he whispered.

.. Just one more.

But the words didn’t quite reach his brain the way they should have.

His vision had begun to blur slightly again, the exhaustion from the night settling back over him like a heavy blanket. Vaniel blinked slowly and leaned back in the chair.

Maybe..

Maybe just a few minutes.

.. The photo wasn’t going anywhere after all!

And if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he would probably wake up feeling much better! Clearer and more focused.

Vaniel rested his arms on the desk again.

“.. Just a few minutes won’t hurt,” he murmured.

His head lowered slowly onto his arms again.

The monitor continued glowing softly above him.

And once again—

Vaniel fell asleep.

...

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The alarm shattered the quiet of the room.

Vaniel jolted upright so suddenly his chair nearly rolled backwards.

“Huh—?!”

His hair was a mess, his eyes unfocused, and for a moment he had absolutely no idea where he was.

The alarm continued ringing from his phone.

Ugh... again?!

Vaniel scrambled for it, knocking his mouse to the floor before finally grabbing the device and silencing the noise.

The room was much more brighter now.

Morning light was spilling through the window.

Vaniel blinked several times, trying to wake his brain up fast enough to understand what was happening.

He turned the phone over.

The screen read:

7:03 AM

Vaniel froze.

Then slowly looked back at the monitor. The editing program was still open, and the last photo..

.. was still unfinished.

“Oh no.”

He sat up so quickly that black spots flickered across his vision. 

For a second the room blurred and tilted, and he had to grab the edge of the desk until the feeling faded.

“Oh no, no, no—!”

Vaniel grabbed the mouse from the floor and pulled himself closer to the desk, his heart suddenly racing as the realization hit him properly.

He still had one more photo to finish.

One.

Just one.

He looked at the clock again in mild panic.

7:04 AM.

Vaniel ran a hand through his already chaotic hair.

“Okay,” he muttered quickly. “Okay, okay, it’s fine.”

He still had time.

He absolutely still had time.

The files didn’t have to be sent until 6 PM.

And that was.. eleven hours away?

Vaniel thought about it for a moment.

Then, slowly exhaled.

“.. Right.”

What was he doing? He clearly had plenty of time.

He leaned forward again, eyes focusing back on the screen as he reopened the editing tools.

“See?” he murmured, mostly to reassure himself. “No problem.”

The final image appeared in full on the monitor.

Shamil’s face looked back at him through the soft studio lighting, calm and distant in a way that felt almost intentional.

Vaniel straightened in his chair.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

“One last photo.”

Vaniel stared at the screen for a moment longer before his stomach made a quiet, traitorous noise.

He froze.

Right! Food.

Lily’s messages from earlier drifted back into his mind.

Did you eat yet?

You forgot again didn’t you.

Vaniel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wake himself up properly.

“.. Okay,” he murmured to the empty room. “Food first.”

He knew himself well enough to realize that if he started editing again right now, he would absolutely forget to eat for another eight hours. And Lily would somehow sense it across the damn city and send him another lecture later.

Vaniel pushed himself out of the chair, stretching his arms above his head as his stiff shoulders protested.

The apartment was quiet in that early-morning way that made everything feel slightly unreal. Pale sunlight slipped through the window and stretched across the floor while the hum of his computer filled the silence behind him.

He shuffled toward the kitchen.

Calling it a kitchen was generous, honestly. It was more like a small corner carved into the apartment with a stove, a sink, and a few cabinets that never seemed to have much inside them.

Vaniel opened one of the cabinets and stared at the contents.

Bread.

A half-empty jar of peanut butter.

Two instant soup packets.

He considered the options for a moment.

“.. Gourmet,” he said softly to himself.

He grabbed the bread.

Cooking had never really been something Vaniel was particularly skilled at. Not because he disliked it—he actually enjoyed the quiet process of making food—but groceries had always been something he had to think carefully about. Photography paid the bills when work was steady, but freelance life wasn’t exactly famous for stability.

Some weeks were better than others.

This week had mostly been bread and whatever he could stretch from the pantry.

Vaniel set a pan on the stove and toasted the bread lightly, watching the edges turn golden while he leaned against the counter. His mind drifted again while he waited, thoughts still half-asleep from the long night.

The smell of warm bread filled the small apartment.

He spread a thin layer of peanut butter across it once it cooled, carefully scraping the jar so nothing went to waste.

Simple.

But it was enough.

Vaniel carried the plate back toward the desk and sat down again, tucking one leg beneath his chair as he took a bite.

For a moment, the apartment was quiet except for the soft clicking of the mouse and the occasional rustle of bread as he ate.

The final photo still waited on the screen.

Shamil stood beneath the studio lights, looking as composed and distant as ever.

Vaniel studied the image while chewing slowly.

It was funny, he thought.

The world saw Shamil as someone untouchable—perfectly styled, perfectly controlled, always standing somewhere just slightly above everyone else. The kind of person who belonged on billboards and magazine covers instead of normal life.

But Vaniel had spent hours watching him during that shoot.

Watching the way he shifted his weight when he got tired.

The way his shoulders tightened when he thought someone was judging him.

The way his expression softened for half a second before he remembered he was supposed to look flawless again.

Vaniel tilted his head slightly.

“.. You looked better when you stop trying trying too hard,” he murmured.

Hm.

He clicked open the editing panel again.

The last photo waited patiently.

Vaniel finished the last bite of his breakfast, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, and leaned closer to the screen.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

“Now I can finally finish.”