Chapter 3
Damien
Ishouldn’t have said yes. That’s the first thought I have when I step into the studio.
Everything in here is curated down to the smallest detail—white backdrops, soft lighting rigs, racks of clothes organized by color. There’s music playing low, something smooth and inoffensive that fades into the background like it was designed not to be noticed.
People move around us like fish caught in a net. Assistants. Stylists. Photographers.
All of them are looking at Atlas and me, deciding how we’re going to be seen by the world.
I hate it.
“Damien, right this way,” someone says, already reaching for my arm.
I step back before they can touch me. “Lead the way.”
They pause, then recover with a quick smile. “Of course. Sorry.”
I don’t apologize back.
Atlas is already here. He’s leaning against one of the clothing racks, talking to a stylist like they’ve known each other for years, laughing at something I don’t hear. Easy and comfortable, as always.
I wish I could be like that sometimes. I wish I didn’t walk into a room assessing threats and finding the closest exits. But unfortunately, I’m damaged goods. I wasn’t meant to have it easy.
Atlas looks up when I walk in. Our eyes meet across the studio and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Is he regretting this like I am?
He looks surprised.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
Just a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.
Like he didn’t expect me to actually show up.
“Hey,” he says, pushing off the rack.
I nod once. “Connors.”
“Wow.” He grins. “I think we’re past the whole last names thing, don’t you think?”
“What am I supposed to call you?”
“Atlas? Sexy? Baby?” He smirks. “Any of those would work.”
I snort. The tension in my shoulders releases slightly now that I’m near something familiar. “I’ll stick with Atlas.”
Joanna stands near the far end of the studio, clipboard in hand, talking to the photographer. She glances over when we approach, her eyes sweeping over us like she’s already calculating angles, lighting, how to sell us.
“Good,” she says. “You’re both here. The contracts have been finalized,” she continues. “Boundaries are clearly outlined. Handholding, hugging, light contact in agreed areas—shoulders, back, knees. Kissing is permitted when mutually agreed upon for public appearances.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a fraction of a second longer than it should.
Like she’s waiting for me to object. I don’t.
“This shoot will be the foundation of the rollout,” she adds. “We’ll release select images alongside the announcement. Keep it natural. Convincing.”
Natural. Right.
Atlas shifts beside me. “You want us to, like…interact? Or just stand there and look pretty?”
Joanna’s lips curve slightly. “Both.”
“Got it.”
I cross my arms. “Let’s get this over with.”
They dress me like I’m someone else—tailored black pants, crisp button-down, dark jacket that fits too well, like it was made for me instead of handed over by someone who thinks they know what looks good.
A stylist runs her hands through my hair, adjusting, shaping, stepping back, then coming in again. She’s not even attempting to be gentle, just raking her fingers through my curls with no thought.
I stand there and let it happen. I knew I should have taken up day drinking.
Atlas comes out a few minutes later.
And I pause.
He’s in something completely different.
Loose jeans. A soft T-shirt layered under an open jacket. Sneakers instead of dress shoes. He looks effortless in a way that doesn’t feel forced. His brown hair is swept back in a cool, effortless way…and he looks fucking good.
It’s all very him.
Joanna’s plan is obvious.
Me—polished, controlled, distant.
Him—warm, approachable, easy.
It feels like a yaoi pairing made by a teenage girl, but that’s what the people want.
I look away before he notices I’m staring.
“Damn,” Atlas says, stepping closer. “Look at you.”
I raise a brow. “What about me?”
“You clean up nice.”
“I was already clean.”
He laughs softly. “No, idiot. You look handsome.”
“Oh.” I look down at myself. “Thanks.”
“Try not to wrinkle anything,” he adds, reaching out…and stopping.
His hand hovers near mine for a second before he drops it.
I don’t know why that makes something in my chest feel…off. So I ignore it.
“Let’s just get this done,” I say.
The camera clicks before I’m ready for it.
“Relax,” the photographer says. “We’re just warming up.”
How am I supposed to relax while wearing these stuffy clothes as everyone stares at me? I stand where they tell me to stand, do what they tell me to do, and hold still when they say hold still. And now they want me to relax?
Atlas moves into place beside me like he’s done this before. I guess he has, for that sports magazine he did last year. They did a whole beach photoshoot of him in tiny shorts. I may have looked through it at a doctor’s office once.
Shit, stop thinking about him in those slutty shorts.
“Angle your body slightly toward him,” the photographer says.
I shift awkwardly, feeling small against Atlas’s towering body.
“Closer.”
I don’t move, but Atlas does. He steps in just enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
It’s light.
Barely there.
“Good,” the photographer murmurs. “Now, Atlas, turn your head toward Damien.”
Atlas does. I stare blankly at the photographer.
“Damien, look at Atlas.”
I don’t.
“Damien,” Joanna says, the warning clear in her tone.
I exhale slowly and turn my head. My eyes lock onto his soft brown ones. I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at them before.
There it is again—that feeling of my heart shuddering in my chest.
I don’t like it.
“Perfect,” the photographer says. “Hold that pose.”
The camera clicks.
“Now something more relaxed,” they continue. “Atlas, maybe put your arm around his shoulder.
Atlas hesitates, but then his arm settles on my shoulder.
Warm and firm.
“Damien, soften your expression just a little. We need something less intense.”
This is less intense.
They take the shot anyway.
Atlas bends down, bringing his mouth to my ear. “This okay?”
The corner of my mouth twitches up. He has a whole contract saying exactly where he can touch me, and yet he still wants to make sure I’m comfortable. “Yeah.”
“That was great!” the photographer says again.
“Alright,” Joanna calls from the side. “Let’s try a seated setup.”
We move. Different angles. Different poses.
At some point, Atlas and I are seated on a couch. Atlas lounges against the pillows, one leg stretched out, the other planted on the floor.
“Damien, sit in the space between Atlas’s legs.”
I sit down, farther away from Atlas than I’m probably supposed to be.
“Damien—” the photographer starts.
Atlas interrupts him. “I got it.”
He can probably tell I’m at the end of my rope. His hands are gentle as he shifts me closer to him.
“I’m gonna touch your legs.”
I nod.
He throws one of my legs over his. “Keep one foot on the floor and lean back against my other leg. I know it’s weird, but it’ll look good in photos.”
“Fine.” I hear the camera clicking as he runs his hands over me.
“Yeah, like that.” Atlas smiles and looks at the photographer.
“That’s good! Talk to each other,” the photographer suggests. “Make it look real.”
Atlas huffs before looking at me. “How are you today?”
“Stressed.”
He laughs, his smile lighting up his face. “Yeah, I can fucking tell.”
Click! Click! Click!
I run a hand through my hair out of habit. “How are you?”
Click! Click! Click!
“Atlas, arms behind your head, please.”
Atlas does as directed, his shirt rising to show defined abs and a trail of hair leading under his jeans. “I can’t complain. I got a hot guy between my legs who’s checking me out.”
I blush and look away from his stomach. “I don’t know if it counts as checking you out when I’m being told to look at you.”
He chuckles. “Depends who you ask.”
I don’t respond.
“Alright,” the photographer says. “Let’s try something more intimate.”
We both stand, stretching our bodies out.
“Okay, stand next to each other. Atlas, lean in a little. Damien, don’t pull away.”
I almost laugh. Atlas shifts closer.
His arm slides around my back this time. Careful. Measured. Like he’s checking every movement against the lines we agreed to.
I can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his shirt.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“Look at each other,” the photographer says.
I do. And this time, I don’t look away immediately.
“Hold that,” the photographer murmurs.
The camera clicks.
And for a second…
Everything else fades.
No lights.
No people.
No contract.
Just…
Him.
“Damien,” the photographer calls, “tilt your head slightly toward Atlas.”
I do.
“Atlas, lean in.”
He does.
Closer.
Closer than before.
Close enough that I can feel his breath when he exhales.
“Perfect,” the photographer murmurs.
Click! Click! Click!
“Alright,” the photographer continues, voice shifting slightly. “Let’s try a kiss.”
Everything stops. Atlas actually freezes.
It’s so subtle that anyone else would miss it. But I don’t.
Because it’s the first time all day he’s not immediately adapting. His hand tightens slightly against my back.
“Only if you’re both comfortable,” Joanna adds from the sidelines, calm as ever.
Atlas exhales quietly. “Yeah,” he says, but it’s not as smooth as before. “Yeah, we…uh…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. And for the first time since this started, he looks at me like he’s not sure.
I should say something, but I don’t.
Instead, I step closer. Close the last inch of space between us. Atlas’s eyes flicker with surprise, quick and sharp.
I don’t overthink it. If I do, I won’t do it. This is part of the job. So I take control of it before it takes control of me.
My hand comes up to the side of his neck—steady, deliberate, within the lines of what we agreed to.
His skin is warm under my palm.
“This okay?” I murmur, echoing his earlier words.
He nods.
Then I kiss him.