I laugh under my breath. “You want me to model for you?”
He smiles, all small and shy. “Please?”
Fuck me, I would do anything for this boy.
Ignoring the guys behind us, I take Noah’s hand and lead him out the back. The path to the pond is narrow, tucked behind a line of trees most people forget are even there. It’s quiet in the way the Sin Bin can never be—no shouting, no music, and no chaos. Just birdsong, and the crunch of leaves under our shoes.
Noah walks a few steps behind me, camera in hand, snapping shots as we go. I slow my pace without thinking, matching him instinctively. “This place still feels unreal,” he murmurs. “Like it shouldn’t exist so close to the Sin Bin mayhem.”
“It’s my hiding spot,” I say. “You’re the only one I’ve ever brought here.”
He looks up at that, surprise flickering across his face. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add quickly, “I mean—Ryan knows it exists, but he doesn’t come here. He says it’s too quiet for him.”
“That checks out,” Noah smiles at that, something warm and private in his expression. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”
We reach the water just as the sun dips lower, the pond glowing gold and copper, the surface rippling softly where the stream feeds into it.
Noah stops dead. “Oh,” he breathes, lifting his camera. “This is perfect.”
I kick off my shoes, and on impulse, tug my shirt over my head and throw on the ground next to my shoes. I’m only in basketball shorts now and already sweaty from my jog earlier, so the breeze feels good against my chest. I don’t think twice about it, I never do. But the second I glance over, I see Noah stop and stare at me.
His eyes drag over me in a way that’s definitely not casual or distracted. No, those mismatched eyes are intensely trained on me. “You okay?” I ask, suddenly aware of my own body in a way I hadn’t been a second ago.
He swallows hard. “Yeah. Just—hold on,” he says, lifting the camera again, fingers steady despite his ears turning pink. “Can you stand closer to the water? Where the light hits your shoulders.”
I do what he asks, stepping down onto the smooth stones at the edge of the pond. The water laps against my ankles, cool and clean. I crouch and splash some onto my arms, then my chest, rinsing off sweat and dirt. When I stand again, the droplets trail down my skin.
Noah inhales sharply, and I pretend not to notice.
This part is easy. I’ve posed for cameras my whole life—media days, interviews, promo shots. I know how to hold myself, but this is different.
Noah doesn’t direct me like a photographer trying to get a product. He watches me, afraid to miss something. He edges closer, adjusting angles, and steps into my space without realizing it.
“Turn your head,” he says softly. “Hold still.”
I watch him instead, the way his eyes go sharp and soft at the same time, the way he bites his lip when he’s trying to get a perfect shot. He’s beautiful in the sun, more himself here than anywhere else, and I wish I could say it out loud.
Even though the shoot starts off calm, it doesn’t stay that way. Noah gets bossy real quick, and I have to fight the smirk tugging at my mouth every time his tone sharpens like a little general.
“Move a little to the left,” he calls out, squinting through the viewfinder. “No, your other left. Shoulder toward me—yeah, don’t hunch. Relax your jaw.”
I lift my chin, biting back a smile, and move as he directs. The pond is cold at my ankles, light pouring over everything in rich gold. He steps closer, barely two feet away now, camera raised. There’s a tension in the air, a steady pulse that starts low in my gut and works its way up. I have to lock my arms at my sides to keep from fidgeting.
I’m not usually self-conscious about my body, not after years in locker rooms and games in front of thousands, but I can feel his gaze like a physical thing on my skin.
He lowers the camera, tilting his head as he considers me from another angle. “Okay, stop flexing. You’re not about to do a protein shake ad.”
I snort, shaking my head. “That’s just my face, Blue. I can’t help it if I’m built like a fucking action figure.”
His mouth twitches. “Convenient excuse,” he mutters, but there’s a smile hiding there, and I want to see more of it. He circles around, adjusting his position. “Can you put your hands in your pockets? No, no—let your arms hang loose. That’s it.”
He takes a few more shots, the shutter snapping in quick succession. I watch him watching me, the way he moves, steady and precise, which is a far cry from the anxious kid I remember trailing after me at fifteen. There’s a confidence in him when he works, and fuck, if it doesn’t get to me. Every time he stepscloser, barking another quiet order, it’s a jolt straight to my spine. I feel stupid for how much I enjoy it and how it both makes my chest tighten and my skin go hot.
Confident Noah is sexy as fuck.
We talk between setups, easy conversation filling the space. He tells me about a photo assignment he’s been working on—something with motion blur and city lights. I tell him about the game coming up this weekend, the pressure building with every practice. Sometimes he asks for a specific expression, a certain tilt of the head, a half-smile. I oblige every time.
