It was two days after that conversation with Zack, and I’d almost convinced myself he’d forgotten about it. Then came the knock.
I looked up from my laptop, camera batteries charging on the side table, when Zack leaned against my doorframe holding two shirts; one white, one black..like he was choosing between them for a red-carpet event.
“So,” he said, smirking. “Camera guy. We doing this photoshoot or what?”
He was still in gym shorts, tank top sticking to his chest, skin flushed from whatever workout he’d just finished. His hair was messy, dark at the edges from sweat. He chewed gum like it was a performance.
“You remember that?” I asked.
He grinned. “You said you’d fix my dating profile. Can’t keep the girls waiting, right?”
He walked in before I could answer, dropping the shirts on the couch. “Figured I’d catch you before you got all busy doing your artsy stuff. I’m fresh from the gym. Pumped as hell. Might as well use it.”
I tried not to laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugged. “You said my pics were tragic. I took that personally.”
“Fair,” I said, grabbing my camera from the desk. “Alright. Let’s make you less tragic.”
He followed me to the window, the soft afternoon light spilling across the floor. It was that perfect hour when the city noise dulled a little, golden light filtering through the blinds. I pulled down the backdrop, half black, half beige, still taped from my last shoot.
Zack stood in front of it, arms crossed, chest flexing like he was born to pose.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s start simple. Look this way.”
He immediately threw up a peace sign, duck face and all.
I groaned. “You’re kidding me.”
“What?” he said, widening his eyes innocently. “This is my signature look.”
“Your signature look screams freshman year selfie.”
He laughed, the sound easy, full. “Come on, lighten up. You’re the photo guy. Capture my natural charm.”
“Your natural charm looks like a meme.”
“Maybe memes get matches,” he said, smirking, then turned his head toward the light.
The camera clicked. The light hit the edge of his jaw, catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. His grin softened just enough to look real for a second. Through the viewfinder, he was magnetic.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound neutral. “Do that again but less… whatever that was.”
He laughed again, ran a hand through his hair, then squared his shoulders. “So you want me serious? Like… brooding?”
“Not brooding. Just—”
He tilted his chin down, stared past the lens with this sudden focus that made my pulse stutter.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “That.”
He held the look for a second, then broke it with a grin. “You getting all that, Picasso?”
I lowered the camera. “You’re uncoachable.”
“You can’t coach perfection, man,” he said, flexing his arm jokingly.
I rolled my eyes, pretending to check the settings, adjusting focus, anything to keep from staring too long. His shirt clung to him in all the right ways, fabric darkened slightly at the chest and back. The faint salt of sweat in the air mixed with his cologne, something clean and sharp.
He moved closer to the window, running a hand along his neck, stretching a little. The motion pulled the tank tighter across his abs, a sliver of skin showing.
“Alright,” I said, voice tighter than I meant. “Face the window. Let the light hit your jaw.”
He turned, hands on his hips, grinning. “You sure you don’t wanna charge me for this?”
“I’ll add it to your rent,” I said.
He laughed. “Fair deal. But only if you guarantee results.”
“I don’t make miracles,” I said.
“You already made me look good once,” he shot back. “Must be the way you see me.”
I swallowed, raised the camera again. “Yeah. Must be.”
The next few minutes blurred into rhythm…me giving quiet instructions, him teasing between every other shot.
“Relax your shoulders.”
“Like this?”
“No, less model, more human.”
“Damn, brutal.”
“Honest,” I said, smiling.
He laughed, shifting again, running his tongue over his bottom lip before glancing my way. “You’re a tough crowd.”
“I’m trying to make you look less like a gym bro ad.”
“That’s my brand, dude.”
“Exactly my point.”
He snorted, shaking his head. The muscles in his neck flexed when he laughed. Every movement felt too deliberate, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and enjoyed watching me pretend I didn’t notice.
“Alright,” I said, lowering the camera for a second. “Switch shirts. Try the white one.”
He peeled off the black shirt in a sexy way, revealing a chest that looked sculpted from habit more than effort…clean tan lines, faint veins down his biceps, a soft glint of sweat along his collarbone.
He caught me looking. Smirked. “What? You said change.”
I forced my voice steady. “I didn’t mean do a strip show”
“Same thing,” he said, tossing the old one onto the couch. “Lighting’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring into the viewfinder again just to have an excuse. “Perfect.”
He slipped the white shirt on, stretched it over his chest, and grinned. “Better?”
“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. “Much.”
He laughed quietly, then struck another over-the-top pose, arms spread. “Tell me when to pout.”
“Never.”
He smirked, lowering his arms. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is to make me look hot,” he said, leaning a little closer, voice playful but not entirely joking. “So far, I think you’re killing it.”
The camera clicked again. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
We took a short break after a few dozen shots. I moved to the table to check the images, scrolling through them quickly, trying to ignore how my pulse hadn’t settled.
Zack came around behind me, close enough that I felt his breath near my neck. He leaned in, one hand braced on the table beside me. His arm brushed mine, warm and solid.
“Damn,” he said, eyes on the screen. “Didn’t know I could look this hot.”
“That’s the lighting,” I said quietly.
“Sure it is.” His grin turned slow, deliberate. “Or maybe you just like me better through the lens.”
The words hung there, heavier than he meant them to be. My fingers froze on the trackpad.
He smirked again, all play. “You good, camera guy?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a breath. “Just… adjusting focus.”
He chuckled, eyes still on me. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
And before I could reply, he nodded toward the corner where the light hit hardest. “So do we do some shirtless ones too, or is that like… next session?”
I glanced at him, trying to keep my voice calm, professional. “We don’t want you looking like a generic gym bro,” I said.
He tilted his head, eyebrows raised, and flexed one arm, just slightly, like a challenge. “Come on, man. I want to look fuckable too.”
Fuckable. The word bounced around my skull, echoing against every nerve ending. Already he was perfect…the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the subtle flex of muscle beneath his skin. My throat went dry. Every casual move he made felt like a promise, like the air between us was charged in ways neither of us wanted to admit.
I shook my head, trying to focus on the camera. “Alright. Let’s change the backdrop first.”
He rolled his eyes but moved toward the corner. I watched him strip slowly, peeling off the white shirt like it was part of the act. Tossed it onto the couch, nothing thoughtless about the way his torso shifted under the movement, the light playing over the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. The trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his shorts caught my attention for longer than I should have allowed.
I raised the camera, pretending to check focus, but the lens became my excuse to stare. Every flick of his wrist, every subtle stretch, every grin aimed at me…it all felt erotic. I knew the angles, the shadows, and somehow, the way his body moved naturally was more intoxicating than any staged pose.
“Tilt your chin up,” I said quietly, adjusting the lens. My voice came out lower than I intended, almost husky. “Yeah, hold that.”
He froze, eyes catching mine for a heartbeat longer than normal. It wasn’t play anymore. Something in that stillness made the apartment shrink around us. The faint light from the window outlined his abs, the curve of his obliques, the faint veins in his arms. I swallowed hard and felt it immediately…hard, pressing against my jeans.
He stepped closer, just enough that I could feel the heat from his chest. Leaned in over the camera to check the shots, smirking. “You like these?” His shoulder brushed mine. “You sure you’re not just pretending this is all business?”
I exhaled shakily, trying to keep my hands steady. “I’m… professional,” I said, though my brain was screaming otherwise.
He laughed, leaning back slightly, that grin teasing. “Right, professional..”
“Uh huh,” I muttered, my pulse hammering, heart in my throat. His shirtless chest, that effortless confidence, the way he moved like he owned the space..it was disarming. I tried to focus on the composition, the lighting, the background but every adjustment of the camera only made me more aware of him, more aware of how impossible it was to pretend I wasn’t turned on.
He shifted again, resting one hand on his hip, the other brushing over the top of his shorts as he leaned just slightly closer to check the preview screen. “You know,” he said casually, voice low and teasing, “you could just tell me if I’m hot. No need for all this technical stuff.”
“I—uh—I’m just… checking the framing,” I stammered, lowering the camera a little, catching a glimpse of the curve of his abs in the viewfinder. Fuk, the muscles flexed under his skin with each slight movement, each laugh, each stretch. My hand twitched over the camera, trying to look composed, trying not to let the lens linger too long.
“You’re sweating a little,” I added, voice tighter than intended.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping his neck with the back of his hand. “Been working out. You think I’d show up all soft for you?”
I laughed, but it was short, breathless. “Soft isn’t the word I’d use.”
He smirked, leaning even closer, the heat from his chest brushing my arm as I angled the camera. “You’re enjoying this more than you’re admitting, camera guy.”
I could only swallow. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He straightened, flexed slightly again, and I caught myself imagining… things I shouldn’t be imagining. Him close like this, that chest, those arms, the strength. I pressed the shutter a few times, mostly to give myself an excuse to look through the lens instead of directly at him. Every image made him more real, more immediate, more intoxicating.
“Hold that,” I said quietly, lower, commanding without meaning to.
He froze, eyes locking with mine again. I felt the weight of his stare, heavy and teasing, dangerous in the way it brushed against my control. He smiled faintly, just enough to make me shiver, and then whispered, “You sure this pose is okay”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely above the camera’s click. “Perfect.”
Zack leaned back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, eyes still on the screen. “Man, these are actually insane. You’re good at this.”
“Not bad, right?” I said, voice steady, heart racing.
“Not bad?” He smirked. “You’re making me look… I don’t know… dangerously fuckable.”
I froze. The word hit differently this time, heavier, more immediate. I felt my stomach tighten, pulse racing, hands trembling slightly over the camera.
He leaned in closer again, just to check one of the images, and our thighs brushed. The closeness made it impossible to ignore how hard I already was. He laughed softly, like he was joking, but there was a spark in his eyes I couldn’t read.
“You know,” he said lightly, brushing against the camera with his shoulder, “I could get used to this. You take great pictures. Maybe tomorrow we do a gym session too, you know, like return the favor?”
I froze mid-click, heat rushing to my face. “Gym session?”
“Yeah,” he said, smirking, backing away slightly. “You know, you take my pictures today, I show you the ropes tomorrow. Help you out. Couple workouts. Balance things out.”
I nodded, trying to act casual, but my mind was spinning, chest tight. “Sure. Sounds… good.”
He grinned, tossing the white shirt over his shoulder. “Alright, deal. But don’t think I’m letting you get away easy”
I swallowed, nodding again. “Yeah. We’ll see”
He gave a final smirk before heading toward the kitchen.
“Don’t overthink it, camera guy. I’ll make you look fuckable too…”, Zach said.
I sat there, lens in hand, pulse still hammering. Every inch of him, every smirk, every casual brush against me, was etched into my mind. And tomorrow, apparently, it was only going to get closer.
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