The morning of my first in-person session with Bryan felt different—electric, as though the air itself vibrated with anticipation. I woke long before my alarm, heart thrumming, stomach twisting with nerves and desire in ways that made my skin feel too warm. I tried to reason with myself: it was just a collaboration, a beauty campaign shoot, nothing more. Just makeup, just artistry.
But deep down, I knew I wasn't entirely convinced.
Bryan wasn't like other makeup artists I'd worked with. There was a subtle intensity behind his calm, a quiet fire in the way he spoke about vision, color, and emotion. Even through our messages, his presence lingered in the back of my mind long after each conversation ended. Every time he sent a voice note, a spark tightened in my chest, teasing me, coaxing awareness into places I hadn't noticed in months.
I tried to shake it off while packing my bag: neutral wardrobe pieces, my content planner, my favorite lip balm, and a bottle of lemon-lavender water—little defenses against nerves I knew would betray me. The thought that I might sound breathless around him made me smile nervously, a blush rising unbidden.
The studio was just a few miles away, but I arrived ten minutes early, claiming professionalism as my excuse. I needed a moment to breathe, to settle. The space was bright and warm, faintly scented with setting spray and powder, filled with the soft glow of ring lights. Rows of palettes gleamed like tiny treasures, reflecting the morning light. Mirrors stretched along the walls, and I caught my own reflection: wide-eyed, flushed, trying too hard to look composed.
Calm down. It's just makeup, I reminded myself.
But the moment the door opened, every ounce of calm evaporated.
Bryan stepped inside, kit in hand, exuding relaxed confidence that made my chest tighten instantly. Black tee, sleeves pushed up to reveal toned forearms. Hair falling in soft waves, as though he'd run his fingers through it on the way. His eyes met mine, and the slow, warm curve of his smile sent a shiver along my spine. My pulse throbbed in places I didn't expect, an urgent rhythm I tried to ignore.
"Morning, Jasmine," he said, voice low and energized. "You look ready to make art."
I tried not to blush. Failed. "Morning. And yes—let's do it."
He set his kit down and came to stand behind me in front of the mirror. He didn't touch me—yet—but the heat of his presence ghosted down my spine. Our reflections met in the glass, and something in his eyes flickered—approval, curiosity, maybe something warmer, deeper.
"We're starting with a glowing base," he murmured softly, leaning slightly to reach into his kit. His words grazed my neck, vibrating along my skin. "Your skin's perfect for it."
The compliment sent a flutter of warmth through me that I wasn't expecting.
He began prepping my skin. Even though his touch remained professional, each brush, each glide of his fingers across my jawline, made me acutely aware of every sensation. His hands were warm, steady, and tender in a way that made heat pool low in my belly. I could feel subtle pulses of electricity wherever his fingers brushed, as though he were stirring not just the skin but something deeper inside me.
When he smoothed moisturizer along my jawline, I inhaled sharply.
"Too cold?" he asked gently.
I shook my head, too embarrassed to admit it wasn't the product—it was him.
He tilted my chin with a single finger, angling my face toward the light. That slight pressure ignited a spark inside me that made my breathing shallow. Every time he leaned in, his chest brushed my shoulder, sending small shivers racing down my spine, leaving me aware of the warmth spreading through me.
"You doing all right?" he asked softly, voice low and intimate.
"Mm-hm," I murmured, my voice quieter than intended. "Just… relaxed."
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, like he understood exactly what I meant without me saying it.
He moved on to foundation, tapping it into my skin with warm fingers. I'd been touched by many makeup artists, but none had ever made me feel this way. Every brushstroke carried something unspoken, a subtle tension neither of us dared to acknowledge. My breath hitched when his thumb grazed the corner of my mouth as he blended the edge of my lip.
"Sorry," he murmured, though there was no apology in his tone. "You've got… delicate features. I don't want to miss any details."
Delicate. The word slid through me like molten warmth, curling through my chest, sinking lower into my stomach, awakening a hunger I hadn't anticipated. I swallowed, a flush spreading across my cheeks and collarbone, feeling more exposed than anyone should under simple professional circumstances.
Then the eye makeup began, Bryan moved closer, so close I could feel the faint warmth of his breath feather along my cheek. My pulse spiked immediately, sending a ripple of tension through my body.
He stepped back to observe the look developing on my skin, and his gaze traveled slowly over my face—not in a way that felt objectifying, but appreciative. Intentional. Admiring.