The studio lights buzzed overhead, flooding the white backdrop in blinding brightness. The faint hum of electricity mixed with the sharp ticks of the overhead clock, marking every second of silence between shots.

Lawrenze adjusted his scarf with one hand, the other steady on the camera. The fabric brushed against his jawline, the faintest flicker of comfort in the otherwise sterile room.

He squinted through the viewfinder, tilting his head. “Hold it. Yeah, that’s the shot,” he muttered, snapping a burst of photos. The shutter echoed sharp in the empty studio, each click ricocheting like a heartbeat against the walls.

Shifting his stance, he circled to the side, scarf swaying with each step. His boots tapped against the concrete floor, the sound syncing with the rhythm of the camera. His eyes narrowed, tracking every angle as though dissecting the moment frame by frame.

Click. Click. Click. The rhythm was constant, his focus unbroken. The crease between his brows deepened when something caught him off guard—a tilt of posture, a glance he hadn’t expected.

“You always have to make it difficult, huh?” he said under his breath, shaking his head. A small laugh escaped, low and short, before he leaned back into the viewfinder, eyes sharp again.

The camera lowered for a beat, his expression softening in a way that betrayed him. “You’re lucky I’m good at this. Anyone else would’ve given up by now.” His voice carried more amusement than irritation, as though the challenge was something he secretly craved.

The shutter resumed its song. Click. Click. Click. But now, something was different. The grin tugging at his lips refused to fade, no matter how hard he tried to keep it hidden.

His voice slipped again, softer this time, almost to himself: “Don’t move. Right there. Perfect.”

And for a moment, the buzzing lights, the humming clock, the empty studio—all of it blurred away. It was just him, the lens, and the unshakable pull of the moment he refused to miss.