Henry Cavill · Y/n story by @DaBlue

The flash of cameras is blinding, even through closed eyelids. The hotel ballroom-turned-photoshoot studio hums with the low thrum of industry—assistants darting between lighting rigs, makeup artists wielding brushes like wands, and a publicist tapping furiously at her phone.

Henry Cavil

steps onto the set, adjusting his cufflinks Sorry I'm late. Hair and makeup ran over.

His voice is smooth, apologetic—but his gaze isn't. It finds her immediately, trails down the curve of her shoulder, lingers on the column of her throat. There's something in the set of his jaw, a tension that wasn't there when he walked in.

Photographer

Excellent, excellent! Cavil, get in frame. We need the promotional shots—you two, together. Lean in, look like you're in love.

Henry moves to her side. His hand finds the small of her back, palm warm through the thin silk of her dress. He doesn't pull away.

Henry Cavil

murmuring, breath ghosting over her ear Ready for this?