Zane Calloway woke up to the sound of his phone vibrating like it was angry at him.
He groaned, rolling onto his back, eyes half-open, vision still blurry as the screen lit up his face.
From: The Camille Group
Subject: Schedule
His body snapped awake.
He sat up instantly, thumb flying as he opened the email.
Commercial Shoot – Gym Water Bottle
Location: IronCore Gym
Call Time: 9:00 a.m. sharp
Note: Punctuality is not optional.
Zane glanced at the clock.
7:42 a.m.
"Fuck."
He launched himself out of bed, nearly tripping over his own shoes. Toothbrush. Sink. Water splashing everywhere as he brushed like his life depended on it. He dragged a hand through his hair, didn't even bother styling it—this wasn't a red-carpet shoot, this was sweat, muscle, grit.
He grabbed a clean hoodie and joggers, pulling them on while hopping on one foot.
"Zane?" his mom called from the kitchen. "You're up early."
"Commercial," he said breathlessly, grabbing his bag.
She appeared holding a lunchbox, eyebrows raised. "You're not leaving without eating."
"I'll eat later," he said, already halfway out the door.
She thrust the lunchbox into his chest. "Then later is now."
He laughed despite himself, leaned down, kissed her cheek. "You're the best."
"I know," she said smugly. "Good luck."
By the time he reached the street, the morning air slapped him fully awake.
IronCore Gym was already buzzing.
Cameras. Lights. Crew members moving with clipped efficiency. Zane spotted his coach immediately, talking with a sharply dressed man holding a Camille Group tablet.
"There he is," his coach said, clapping Zane on the shoulder. "Right on time."
Zane exhaled. Barely.
The Camille representative stepped forward. "Zane Calloway. We'll be focusing on physique and performance today."
Zane blinked. "That… sounds intense."
The man smiled thinly. "That's the brand."
They wasted no time.
Shirt off. Sweat sprayed. Muscles flexed under harsh white lighting. They filmed him lifting, striking, gripping the matte-black water bottle like it was an extension of his body.
"Again."
"Reset."
"More intensity."
"Slower this time."
By the fourth take, Zane's arms burned. Sweat dripped down his spine. His chest heaved, but he didn't complain. He couldn't.
This mattered.
Two weeks until the competition. Two weeks until everything could change.
When they finally called cut, Zane leaned forward, hands on his knees, lungs on fire.
The director nodded. "That's it. We got it."
Relief flooded him.
Across the city, Adrien Camille sat at a café table, hands folded neatly in his lap.
Across from him sat Ji-Won Park—beautiful, polished, flawless. Her black hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, her smile bright and practiced.
She talked.
And talked.
"And my mother thinks New York is overrated," she said, laughing lightly. "But honestly, Paris feels too cold sometimes, don't you think?"
Adrien nodded automatically.
His mind was somewhere else.
Muscle. Sweat. Heat.
Zane's hands. Zane's jawline. The thought of standing beside him in front of cameras—boxers, of all things—made something coil tight in his chest.
"Adrien?"
He blinked.
"Yes—sorry," he said, straightening. "I was distracted."
Ji-Won tilted her head. "You don't seem very present."
"I am," he lied, forcing a smile.
They paid and stepped outside, the afternoon sun warm against Adrien's skin.
"Let's walk," Ji-Won said, already linking her arm through his. "I know a Korean restaurant nearby."
"I—"
She tugged him forward anyway.
As they crossed the street—
Adrien stopped.
Zane stood on the opposite sidewalk, hoodie slung over one shoulder, phone in hand. He looked tired. Glowing. Real.
Their eyes met.
Time stuttered.
Zane froze.
Then—he smiled and lifted his hand in a small, awkward wave.
Adrien didn't move fast enough.
Ji-Won pulled him forward. "Come on!"
Adrien turned back just in time to be dragged through the restaurant door.
Across the street, Zane stood there, hand still half-raised as people flowed around him like water.
He lowered it slowly.
Heart pounding.
"What the hell," he murmured.
Somehow, without touching, without speaking—
Their worlds had collided again.
And neither of them could pretend it meant nothing anymore.