The apartment wasn’t much to look at. Two bedrooms, small living room, kitchen the size of a closet. Minimalist in theory, messy in practice. Tripods leaned against one wall, a ring light half-collapsed near the couch, camera gear scattered like I was in the middle of a shoot that never ended.
I’d been interviewing potential roommates all week. One guy smelled like weed and regret. Another wanted to “start a band.” Someone even asked if I’d be cool with them “hosting game nights.” I wasn’t.
By the time Zack showed up, I’d lost hope.
He filled the doorway like he’d been sent to test my self-control. Tank top, gym shorts, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Sweat still clung to his collarbone, like he’d come straight from the gym.
“Hey, man. I’m Zack,” he said, grinning. His voice had that lazy, confident rasp that people get from knowing they look good.
I tried to play it cool. “Eli.” I stepped aside to let him in. “The apartment is small. But the water pressure’s good and the neighbors mostly mind their business.”
He looked around, eyes landing on the mess of lenses and light stands. “You a YouTuber or something?”
“Photographer,” I said. “Freelance stuff. Mostly portraits, events, sometimes product shoots when rent’s due.”
He nodded, impressed in that easy, boyish way. “That’s sick. I’m a trainer. Work out of a gym downtown. Pretty flexible hours, but I’m up early a lot.”
I glanced at his shoulders. “Yeah, I figured.”
He laughed. “What, this?” He flexed one arm just slightly, like he was mocking himself, but not enough for me to look away.
I smiled. “Just an observation.”
He wandered further in, eyes scanning the space. He moved like he already belonged here. “You live alone?”
“Until now, yeah.”
“I’m clean, I promise,” he said. “Just… a lot of meal prep containers. And probably some gym gear lying around. But I’ll keep my corner neat.”
“Corner?” I teased. “You planning to move into the living room?”
He grinned. “Nah, man. Just saying, I’m low maintenance. As long as I can shower twice a day and make eggs at 6 a.m., we’re good.”
“Six?” I groaned. “You realize I don’t exist before nine.”
“Then I’ll be quiet,” he said, smirking. “I’ll sneak around.”
Something about the way he said it made me imagine him moving through the apartment shirtless, quiet, damp from a shower. My throat tightened.
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my voice. “Sounds fine.”
We talked for another half hour. He was loud, charming, kind of chaotic but disarmingly open. The kind of guy who didn’t think twice before touching your shoulder mid-laugh. He asked what kind of people I photographed. I told him mostly faces…ordinary people trying to look extraordinary.
He nodded, thoughtful. “That’s kinda deep.” Then grinned again. “You’d probably make me look good too.”
I laughed. “You already do that yourself.”
───
A week later, Zack moved in.
The apartment changed overnight. His stuff wasn’t messy, just there. Protein powder on the counter, shaker bottles in the sink, that faint masculine smell that clung to everything. It wasn’t bad. Just… different. Clean, salty and warm.
Mornings became louder. Blenders roaring before sunrise, heavy footsteps, the occasional thud of push-ups in the living room. He walked around shirtless without thinking, grabbing coffee, towel draped over his neck, skin still flushed from working out.
He’d nod at me like it was nothing. “Morning, man.”
And I’d nod back, pretending I wasn’t staring at his chest.
Sometimes he’d sit at the counter while I edited photos, scrolling on his phone, talking about gym clients and macros. “You ever shoot athletes?” he asked once, between bites of oatmeal.
“Not really,” I said. “They move too much.”
He chuckled. “Bet you’d make me look intense.”
“Pretty sure you’ve got that covered.”
He grinned, brushing his spoon against the bowl. “You say that like you’ve been watching.”
My stomach twisted. “You make it hard not to.. Walking around shirtless all day.”
He blinked, not catching the double meaning, then laughed. “Guess that’s a compliment.”
It was hard to explain what it felt like, living with him. It wasn’t attraction in the simple sense. It was proximity…this constant awareness of another man’s presence. His scent on the couch cushions, his voice echoing down the hallway, his towel hanging next to mine in the bathroom.
Sometimes I’d pass by his door and hear weights clinking, his breathing steady and deep. Sometimes I’d find him sprawled on the couch, scrolling, legs wide open, half-asleep.
He didn’t notice what that did to me. Or maybe he did, and he liked it.
────୨ৎ────
One evening, the air in the apartment felt heavy and slow.
Neither of us wanted to cook. Zack sprawled on the couch, shirt half twisted, scrolling through dating apps on his phone like he was waging war with it.
“Dude, what the hell,” he muttered. “Why does nobody match with me? This app’s trash.”
I looked up from my laptop. “Maybe it’s not the app.”
He threw me a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let me see,” I said, already reaching over.
He hesitated for a second, then turned the phone toward me. His dating profile was exactly what I expected…three bad gym selfies, a bathroom mirror shot with foggy lighting, and one where half his face was cropped out by a bicep.
“Yeah,” I said, scrolling. “This screams I do push-ups in nightclubs.”
He groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Fuck. I knew it. I look like a douchebag.”
“You kinda do,” I said, smiling. “But like, the hot kind. That’s the problem. No one takes you seriously.”
He laughed, deep and genuine, that stupidly infectious sound that made his throat flex and his chest rise. “You’re brutal, man.”
“I’m honest,” I said, closing his phone. “You need photos that don’t look like you’re trying so hard.”
He sat up a little, curious. “So what, you got an idea?”
“I mean, yeah. That’s literally my job.”
He blinked, remembering. “Right, you’re the photo guy. Shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “So what would you do? Make me look... artistic or something?”
“Human,” I said. “That’s a good start.”
He leaned closer. “Nah, come on. You gotta make me look….what’s the word..fuckable.”
The word hit harder than I expected. I froze for a split second, caught between pretending I didn’t hear it and wondering if he knew exactly what he’d said.
He didn’t break eye contact. Just that same lazy smirk, the one that felt like a test.
“Yeah,” he said again, slower this time. “Make me look like someone people want to fuck.”
My throat went dry. “I think I can manage that,” I said finally, keeping my voice even.
“Cool,” he said, smiling like it was the most casual thing in the world. “You tell me when you’re free.”
He stretched back into the couch, his tank top riding up, abs flexing under the soft light. My eyes flicked down before I could stop them. The shadow of a V-line disappearing beneath his shorts, the slight sheen of sweat still on his skin from whatever workout he’d done earlier.
He caught me looking. Or maybe he didn’t.
Hard to tell with Zack.
“Hey,” he said, breaking my silence. “You ever, like, photograph people you know? Or’s that weird?”
“It’s not weird,” I said. “It’s just… different.”
“How different?”
I shrugged. “You start noticing things. Details you normally wouldn’t.”
He tilted his head, curious. “Like what?”
“Depends on the person,” I said.
He grinned, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “So what would you notice about me?”
I laughed under my breath. “That’s not how this works.”
“Come on,” he said. “You’re the expert. Critique me.”
His tone was teasing, but his eyes were locked on me. I could feel it…him enjoying how uncomfortable he made me. I wanted to look away. I didn’t.
I gestured vaguely. “You’ve got symmetry, confidence, strong angles. You photograph well.”
He smirked. “That’s a polite way of saying I’m hot.”
I exhaled slowly. “I think you already know that.”
He grinned wider, satisfied. Then he reached out and nudged my knee with his foot. “Man, you’re too serious. Loosen up.”
“Loosen up?”
“Yeah.” He grinned, sitting back again. “We’re gonna have fun with this. You tell me what to do, I’ll do it. You’re the boss, camera guy.”
That stupid nickname rolled off his tongue like a dare.
He grabbed his water bottle from the coffee table, drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A drop slid down his jaw, catching in the faint stubble before disappearing along his neck.
I had no business watching that closely.
He caught my stare again, just briefly.
Something flickered behind his eyes. A pause too long.
Then he smiled. “Don’t overthink it, man. I trust you.”
Trust. Right.
When he finally got up and walked toward his room, the air felt charged…like static before a storm.
He stopped at the doorway and looked back, that half-grin still tugging at his mouth. “You know, you should tell me when you wanna do it. The shoot, I mean.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound normal.
He smirked again. “Cool. Remember, I wanna look fuckable.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I just sat there, staring at the empty couch, heart pounding, mind full of images I shouldn’t have.
His laugh. That word. The way his shirt had ridden up when he leaned back.
I knew exactly how this was going to go.
And I also knew I wouldn’t stop it.
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