Chapter Three: Exposure
They bring in Rudy for “press.” That’s what they call it. Photos, interviews, content. Words that sound small for something that feels like being peeled open under lights.
“Big deal,” someone whispers near Teddy as they set up. “He shoots all the potential winners.”
Teddy doesn’t ask his name. He sees him first. Rudy stands a little apart from the crew, camera already in his hands like it belongs there more than anything else in the room. Not talking much. Not trying to impress anyone. Just… watching.
Everyone else looks at Teddy like they already know what they’re seeing. Rudy looks like he’s still deciding. Teddy feels it before he understands it. That slight shift in his chest. Not nerves. Not exactly.
Awareness.
“Alright, Teddy, we’re ready,” someone calls.
He steps into the light. White backdrop. Too clean. Too easy. He leans against the stool they’ve set out, one foot hooked on the rung, posture loose, practiced without trying to look it.
“Give us something natural,” the assistant says.
Teddy almost laughs.
Rudy lifts the camera.
“Don’t,” he says.
The room pauses.
Not loud. Not rude. Just… placed.
The assistant blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell him what to do.”
Rudy doesn’t look away from Teddy.
“He knows.”
Something passes between them then. Quick. Sharp. Unnamed. Teddy straightens just a fraction. Not obedient. Not defensive.
Engaged.
“Go on,” Rudy says, quieter now. Not to the room. To him.
The first click lands like a pin drop.
Teddy doesn’t pose. He shifts. Breathes. Lets his eyes settle somewhere just past the lens, like he’s looking at a version of the room no one else can see.
Click.
Rudy steps closer. Not into his space, but near enough that Teddy notices.
Click.
“You don’t like this,” Rudy says, almost conversational, still shooting.
Teddy’s mouth curves, barely.
“Which part?”
“Being told who you are.”
Another click.
Teddy tilts his head. Studies him.
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
No judgment. No edge. Just fact. That does something.
Click.
Teddy drops the performance a notch. Just a notch. Lets something quieter come through. Less sharp, more… real, if that’s the word.
Rudy catches it immediately. The camera doesn’t hesitate.
Click. Click. Click.
“There,” Rudy murmurs.
Teddy’s eyes flick to him, direct now.
“Where?”
Rudy lowers the camera just enough to look over it.
“Right there. Don’t fix it.”
For a second, Teddy forgets about the room. The crew. The lights. The show waiting to crown him in a few days.
It’s just this.
Being seen. Not the version he throws out for people. Something under it. It lasts maybe two seconds.
Then Teddy smiles. Not the soft one. The other one. The one that says you don’t get to keep that.
Rudy lifts the camera again anyway.
Click.
***
The shoot wraps too fast.
People move in, thank yous, handshakes, chatter filling the space like it always does.
Teddy steps off the set, rolling his shoulders, shaking the moment off like water.
But it sticks.
Rudy is packing up when Teddy drifts over, casual as anything.
“You always talk to your subjects like that?” he asks.
Rudy doesn’t look up right away. Zips his bag. Slings it over one shoulder.
“Only the ones pretending.”
Teddy huffs a quiet laugh.
“Bold.”
“Accurate.”
Now he looks at him. Direct. No flicker. No fan energy. No hunger. Just… attention.
It’s different from the others. Cleaner. Sharper.
Teddy shifts his weight, just slightly. Almost imperceptible.
“Got what you needed?” he asks.
Rudy considers that.
“Not yet.”
Something in Teddy’s chest answers before his brain does.
“Then what are you missing?”
A beat.
Rudy steps a fraction closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to register.
“You,” he says.
Simple. Flat. Not flirtation. Not a line. A statement.
Teddy’s smile comes slow this time.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know me.”
Rudy’s expression doesn’t change.
“I know enough.”
There it is again. That line. Thin. Tight. Alive.
Teddy could step back. He doesn’t.
“Yeah?” he says, softer now. “What’s that?”
Rudy watches him for a second too long.
“Days from winning,” he says. “Days from turning eighteen. Everyone telling you who you are before you’ve decided.”
Teddy’s jaw shifts. Not defensive. Interested.
“And?” he prompts.
Rudy tilts his head slightly, like he’s adjusting a frame only he can see.
“And you’re going to break something,” he says.
A pause.
“Probably yourself.”
Silence stretches between them. Teddy should laugh. Should brush it off. Should walk away.
Instead, he feels it land somewhere quiet and precise.
He smiles anyway. That unreadable one.
“Guess we’ll see,” he says.
Rudy nods once, like that’s already answered.
“Yeah,” he says. “We will.”
***
That night, Teddy finds one of the photos online before it’s even officially released. Black and white.
Of course.
He’s not smiling. Not really. There’s something else there. Something he doesn’t remember giving.
He stares at it longer than he means to. Then locks his phone and tosses it aside. But when he closes his eyes, it’s not the crowd he sees.
Not the stage. Not the win waiting for him. It’s that moment.
Two seconds. Where someone looked at him and didn’t look away. And didn’t pretend.
Teddy exhales into the dark.
“Shit,” he mutters.
Because something just shifted.
And he doesn’t know yet if he likes it.
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