✵

My phone has been ringing for God knows how long, gradually waking my consciousness from its slumber.

My head is already pounding slightly from my mild hangover from last night. I didn't drink that much to get me drunk but it was enough to make me slightly buzzed and tipsy, plus my alcohol tolerance is high. But holy fucking shit does my head feel like it's being split open by multiple axes at once. The sunlight spewing through my curtain and the bitter and rusty taste in my mouth is certainly not helping.

I groan in my sleep as I reach for the annoying mobile talking device that's currently buzzing on my nightstand. "Hello?"

"Hi. Is this Leroy?"

My groggy mind stumbles over the name 'Leroy,' a name that doesn't quite fit into the puzzle I'm trying to piece together. "Who?"

"You know? The guy who I met and talked to about a week ago? The same guy I hired to model for my project. Did I forget to mention that he's also besties with Edween? Sound familiar?"

It takes me a moment, as the gears in my head start turning, trying to process the mysterious caller's words. And then it hits me: it's Thea on the other line. Her voice is a blend of dry humour and has a deadpan to it. The impatience and exasperation in her tone are not hard to miss. And I gotta say, her sarcasm is just lovely and colourful. Note the sarcasm in my statement.

"It's Levi. Not Leroy."

"Yes, yes. Am I speaking to him? Yes or no."

Someone woke up in a worse mood than me and I'm hungover. I roll my eyes.

"You're speaking to him," I answer.

"Wonderful. I need you at my studio for test shoots as soon as possible. And by as soon as possible, I mean right now."

Thea's voice is straight to the point and infused with a blend of confidence and authority, cutting through my drowsiness like a cold breeze. She's not just commanding attention; she's demanding it, and she's aware of the power she holds.

"Test shoots?"

"They're basically practice shoots for the first time or inexperience models."

I sit up straight with a perplexed look on my face. Modelling isn't really all that hard and complicated that I need practice shoots. Plus, she's a freelance photographer doing what I'm assuming to be an indie or passion project of some sort.

"Why the hell do I need practice shoots? All I'll be doing is just standing in front of a camera while you do your thing."

I hear her laugh from the other side of the line. Her laughter dances through the line, a light melody that contrasts with her straightforward demeanour. However, it's coming off as condescending, almost as if she finds amusement in the idea that I could simplify her artistry to just 'doing her thing' and that I'm so below her level and unintelligent to know what I'm talking about or understand her artistic process. And not gonna lie, it kinda irks me how she doesn't seem to take me seriously.

"Oh, darling. Modelling isn't just about looking sexy and striking poses in front of a camera. It's far more complex. It demands skill, preparation, and adaptability—which you have none of due to your lack of experience in this field."

Yeah... she's definitely not taking me seriously.

"Then why hire me in the first place? You could have hired someone which much more experience than I do, but here we fucking are." I argue.

"Because you possess something crucial for my project. You're lucky I'm generous enough to offer you a chance to learn and gain experience in modelling. Plus, if you ever choose to pursue modelling, this will look good for your portfolio for potential clients and agencies."

Her response is quick with an unwavering confidence and that stirs curiosity within me. I find it peculiar how she seems to perceive me as someone lesser than her due to my lack of experience and knowledge of the world she decided to rope me into, yet she seems to also see some hidden potential I'm unaware of and probably don't understand. It's like she's always tossing riddles my way, daring me to catch up to her pace. Memories of our first meeting resurface—the way her jade eyes assess me, her sharp wit and straightforwardness cutting through the small talk like a surgeon's scalpel. It's like she's always sizing up the world, dissecting it with her words, seeking out the contradictions and the truth that often hides beneath. Damn, even a casual conversation with her feels like mental gymnastics.

"So when can I expect you to get here?"

There's a brief pause on my end as I rub what's left of the grogginess and sleep in my eyes. This woman values her time, I'll give her that.

"Give me thirty minutes and I'll be there," I answer.

"I'll give you an hour latest. Better get your arse in gear and start stepping while I'm being generous, darling. It's rude to keep a woman waiting."

The line is cut, thus ending the call. I stare at my phone in utter confusion before letting a scoff that's bordering amusement and exasperation. I've never met anyone as confusing but yet so curious until her.

✵

I arrive at Thea's studio about forty-five minutes later. It's a bit later than the initial time I had promised but earlier than the time she 'generously' gave me. I meet Annie and Pieck at the reception upon my arrival going about whatever they had been doing.

"You're here," Annie acknowledges.

"What happened to you?" Pieck asks furrowing her eyebrows with confusion laced with concern.

I'm clad in a simple blue shirt, its two undone buttons exposing a hint of chest. A silver chain necklace graces my neck, its glimmer echoed by a buckled belt cinching my waist. The sleeves are casually rolled up, the fabric draping my elbows. Completing the ensemble are black jogger pants and combat boots, creating a look that balances between nonchalant and put-together.

"Moved to a new place yesterday. My new neighbours dragged me to a bar against my will as a way of welcoming me. Woke up with a hangover." I summarise in a deadpan.

The dark-haired woman sucks her teeth with a cringe. "Thea is not going to like this."

"You look like shit," Annie's voice cuts through the air, matter-of-factly, her icy blue orbs meeting mine without hesitation. Her fingers, busy typing on the keyboard, momentarily pause as she lifts her gaze from the screen to scrutinize my appearance. It's a quick, almost dismissive movement, but the unspoken judgment lingers in the air.

I feel like shit.

"Yeah, well, that's her problem and her own fault for calling me on such short notice," I answer. "I honestly can't be bothered what she thinks."

They both share a look, silently communicating with each other.

"I'll take you to her," A sigh escapes Pieck lips, a mixture of sympathy and resignation, as if she knows all too well the storm that awaits me on the other side. 

✵

Pieck escorts me inside a small studio space. The room greets me with an air of anticipation, equipment meticulously arranged like a painter's palette. Thea's artistic endeavours are evident in every detail; props are scattered like forgotten treasures, and a backdrop stands tall, awaiting its transformation into a realm of imagination. She's hovering near the tripod, glasses perched on her nose, her fingers deftly adjusting the camera settings with a familiarity that borders on intimacy. A small curtain of platinum peach hair partially obscures her face, casting fleeting shadows over the intensity in her jade eyes.

"He's here," Pieck announces. "Good luck," she whispers with a pat on my shoulder before vacating the room. Thea and I are now left alone in the intimate space of her studio.

"How lovely of you to grace me with your presence, Leroy," she meets my gaze. "You look rather... charming today."

The biting jab at my appearance catches me off guard. Can't tell if I'm irritated or amused by it. "You have a very unique way of welcoming your guests."

She shrugs nonchalantly. "I try. Wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable now, would I?"

My lips twitch into a half-smile despite myself. "Definitely wouldn't want that."

Her jade eyes study me for a moment. Her head is slightly tilted, and her gaze is holding an intensity that's hard to ignore.

"Rough night?" her tone is casual yet curious.

I shrug my shoulders lethargically, feeling like I'm under a microscope. "Something like that. Moved to a new place. New neighbours threw me a welcome party."

"Ah, the joys of social obligations," a sly smile tugs her lips. "I hope it was worth the morning-after misery."

"It's not exactly how I planned spending my first night in my new apartment. I still have a lot of unpacking to do. So, there's that."

She lets out a tight-lipped hum, seemingly satisfied with my response and somewhat disinterested in delving further into the subject. "Let's not waste any more time. I'm sure you're dying to stand in front of a camera while I do my thing."

My eyebrow twitches with annoyance at her sarcasm. "Good to know that you paid attention to my eloquent description of the process, boss." I bite back.

"I'm a photographer. I pay attention to every single detail," she smiles enigmatic, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

I narrow my eyes at her curiously. I find it strange how she manages to make me feel on edge and at ease at the same. I don't know if I should be wary of her or be intrigued by her. Or it's probably her sarcasm and dry humour and my hangover playing tricks with me.

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