I paused with my hand on the studio door, the cold metal of the handle grounding me. The envelope in my pocket pressed against my hip, a solid weight. I'd done what I came to do. I should go. My mother's prescription, the overdue notice—they were handled, at least for now. I took a breath, ready to step out into the hallway, when I heard it.

A sound behind me. Low, strained. A grunt, like Marcus was lifting something heavy, or—I didn't know. Something about it caught me off guard, pulled my hand back from the door. I stood there, listening. The sound came again, tighter this time, almost pained. My chest tightened. Maybe he'd moved a piece of equipment wrong. Maybe he'd hurt himself.

I should have kept walking. The session was over. I had the money. But my feet turned before my brain could argue, and I found myself moving back down the hall, toward the door to his inner studio. It was slightly ajar, a crack of warm light spilling into the dim hallway. I'd never been in there. The whole shoot had happened in the main studio, under the hot lamp, on the rumpled velvet couch. This room was his private space.

I told myself I was just checking on him. That's all. Just making sure he was okay.

The grunt came again, and I stopped breathing. I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, peering through the gap. The air was thick with linseed oil and dust, the same scent that had filled the studio all afternoon. The light inside was different—softer, warmer, a single lamp casting long shadows across the floorboards. I saw him.

His back was to me, shoulders broad and tense under his black shirt. But the shirt was rucked up, and his pants—his pants were pooled around his ankles. My mind went blank. That wasn't—that couldn't be—

His hand was moving. I saw the rhythm before I understood what I was looking at. His arm working, muscles flexing, his head tilted back just slightly. The sound he made was low and rough, a sound I'd never heard from him before. All afternoon he'd been measured, controlled, every word precise. Now he was something else entirely.

I should have looked away. I should have backed down the hall, slipped out the door, pretended I'd never heard anything. But I couldn't move. My feet were rooted to the floorboards, my breath caught in my throat, and I watched.

The line of his back was beautiful in the lamplight, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the dip of his spine. His hand worked in a steady rhythm, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way they bunched with each stroke. He was lost in it, completely unaware of me standing there, watching him fall apart.

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he'd hear it. But he didn't. He just kept going, his breathing growing heavier, more ragged. I should have felt disgust. I should have felt violated, or angry. Instead, I felt something else, something I didn't want to name. Heat. A flush creeping up my neck.

I remembered the way he'd looked at me during the shoot. The way his eyes had traced the curve of my hip, the arch of my back. The way he'd said I was the most beautiful thing he'd photographed in years. He'd been professional, controlled, every touch precise and impersonal. But now I knew. I knew what he'd been thinking about.

His rhythm quickened. The sound he made was higher now, strained, almost desperate. I watched his shoulders tense, his hand moving faster, and I couldn't look away. The muscles in his thighs tightened, and I saw the way his body coiled, every line of him pulled taut.

And then he came.

I watched it happen, watched his body convulse with the force of it. There was so much of it, more than I'd ever imagined. It arced from him, spilling onto the floorboards in thick ropes, and I watched the way his testicles tightened and lifted with each pulse, the way his whole body shuddered with the release. His hand kept moving, slower now, milking every last drop. The sound he made was raw, almost pained, and then he went still.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I stood there, frozen, watching his back rise and fall with heavy breaths. The air in the room felt thick, charged with something I didn't understand. I saw the mess on the floor, glistening under the lamplight, and a strange, dizzying heat flooded through me.

He'd been thinking of me. I knew it. He'd been standing in his inner studio, his pants around his ankles, thinking of me.

I backed away, my feet silent on the floorboards. My heart was slamming against my ribs, and my hands were shaking. I didn't know what I was feeling. I didn't want to know. I turned and hurried down the hall, my bare feet cold on the wood, the envelope in my pocket slapping against my hip with every step.

I reached the outer door and grabbed the handle, yanking it open. The cool air of the hallway hit my face, and I stepped through, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click. I stood there, leaning against the wall, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

I'd never seen a man like that. I'd never watched anyone fall apart like that, so completely, so unguarded. And the fact that it was Marcus—cool, controlled Marcus—made it worse. Made it feel like I'd stumbled onto a secret I wasn't meant to know.

But I knew. And I couldn't unsee it.

I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heart pounding beneath my palm. The heat was still there, a low throb between my thighs that I was trying very hard to ignore. I told myself it was just shock. Just the strangeness of the situation. But I knew it wasn't. I knew it was something else.

The shoot had been about money. About paying my mother's bills, about keeping the lights on. I hadn't wanted it to be anything else. I'd told myself that the whole time, that it was just a job, just my body in front of a camera, nothing more. But now—now I didn't know what it was.

I thought about the way he'd looked at me. The way he'd told me I was learning to be seen. The way his hand had lingered on my shoulder, guiding me into a pose. I'd felt something then, something I'd shoved down. But now it was rising up, unstoppable.

He wanted me. Not just as a subject. He wanted me.

I pushed off the wall, my legs unsteady beneath me. I needed to get out of here, to get home, to put some distance between me and what I'd just seen. I started down the hallway, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor, and I was almost at the stairwell when I heard it.

"Elara?"

His voice, muffled through the door. Calling my name. He'd come out of the studio, or he was about to, and I froze, my hand on the stairwell door, my breath caught in my throat.

He called my name again, closer this time, and I heard the creak of floorboards as he moved. He was coming toward the door. He was going to open it and find me standing there, flushed and shaking, and he'd know. He'd know I'd seen him.

I had seconds. Seconds to decide.

I could flee. I could run down the stairs, out the front door, and never look back. I could pretend I'd never heard anything, never seen anything. I could take the money and the memory and bury it somewhere deep.

Or I could stay. I could turn around and face him, and whatever was about to happen would happen.

The floorboards creaked again, closer still. I heard his hand on the door handle, the faint metallic click as it turned.

And I stood there, frozen, the heat still burning between my thighs, and I didn't know what I wanted.