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And they come off. Right there, in front of everyone. Underneath, he’s wearing a pair of grey compression shorts, and that’s it. That’s all he has on.

The stylist kneels in front of him and tugs the waistband straight, then straightens the hems around his thighs. I’m seized by the urge to march over there and slap her hand away.

I look around for somebody, anybody, to be as appalled as I am. His bulge is out for all to see, and the stylist is on her knees in front of him—in front of it—fussing with his shorts like this is all completely normal! But no one seems in the slightest bit concerned.

The stylist steps back, Ryan moves into his pose, and the first frame pops up on the laptop. The photographer peers at it.

“Ryan, can you sort yourself out at the front? Things are sitting a bit to the left.”

He says it at full volume, in exactly the same tone he used for “chin down”.

I glance at the screen. He’s right. Things are sitting a bit to the left—if by “things” you mean my boyfriend’s penis. The shape of it is right there, for the whole room to see. I very much hope somebody deletes that photo.

Ryan reaches down and rearranges himself without a flicker of embarrassment. And nobody bats an eyelid. The runner is tidying away empty cups. Mara is talking to the Razor woman. The make-up artist is cleaning a brush. Apparently, it’s no big deal for a man to adjust his privates so they sit more nicely for a photo.

God. Why did I come here?

I thought it would be hot, watching my boyfriend pose for photos. And yes, fine, it is hot. Extremely hot. But I didn’t expect to feel jealous and possessive and whatever all these other emotions I’m feeling are. And these photos are going to be published. They might be on billboards, websites, people’s phones. How jealous am I going to feel then, at the thought of people lying on their beds, ogling him in the privacy of their own homes?

Which is, to be fair, exactly what I did back in May. But that was different! That was me. It’s the idea of other people ogling his muscles—and his package—that I can’t stand.

After I-don’t-know-how-many photos of Ryan in those itty-bitty shorts, the Razor woman says, “Okay, let’s get Chloe back in for the pair. And get the vest back on him for this one.”

The stylist hands Ryan a fresh vest off the rail, and he pulls it on. I wait, hopefully, for her to hand him some fight shorts too, but she doesn’t. He’s staying in the compression shorts, for a photo with Chloe.

I have half a mind to walk over there and request—no, demand—that he put the fight shorts back on. It was hard enough watching him be photographed on his own in those things. Watching him pose in them beside Chloe in a crop top? I think that might just be too much for me.

But I stay in my chair. This is a paid job, and it’s not my place to interfere, as much as it pains me. And it does pain me. A lot.

They start them back to back, arms folded. Then Ryan sits forward on a bench, forearms resting on his knees, and Chloe stands at his shoulder, close enough that the picture reads as a couple. For the last few frames, the photographer asks her to rest her hand on his shoulder.

It’s completely professional. I know that. But I lay awake one night in May listening to the pair of them through my ceiling. And I haven’t forgotten what she sounded like.

My stomach churns.

“And that’s a wrap,” Mara calls. “Thanks, everyone.”

People start clapping. Chloe wastes no time turning to Ryan and laying her hand on his arm.

“So, the title shot. Ryan, that’s huge! You must be so excited.”

She hasn’t looked at me all afternoon. I don’t think she has the faintest idea who I am.

I, on the other hand, have spent the last however many hours feeling jealous, and I’ve had enough. Before I’ve even fully processed what I’m doing, I’m up off my chair and walking across the studio. Ryan sees me coming and turns, a question on his face. I put my hand on his chest, go up on my tiptoes, and kiss him. Very thoroughly. In front of everyone.

By the time I’m finished, Chloe’s eyebrows are up near her hairline. She clears her throat. “Right. Okay. Well, catch you later, Ryan.”

“Er. Aye.”

She walks off.

Ryan looks down at me. And then, without a word, he takes my hand and starts walking. He leads me across the studio, past the laptop, past Mara, past the woman from Razor, who is staring at us with open curiosity.

Oh, duckety duck. I’ve embarrassed him. In front of his sponsor, and a room full of people he has to work with. What was I thinking? I don’t make scenes. I just…my emotions got the better of me!

He doesn’t stop until we reach his changing room. He opens the door, ushers me in, and shuts it behind us.

Then he locks it.