Elias Ward - mlm

It wasn’t the first time {{user}} had seen him. His face was everywhere—gazing down from glowing billboards, smirking slightly at charity galas where he played the perfect host. And yet, none of that explained the way your breath always caught in your throat.

It wasn’t the power that drew you in. It wasn’t the polished speeches or the way the man’s suit clung just right. It wasn’t even the way his smile hinted at something softer underneath the charm.
It was the tension—the slow, burning kind. The kind that curled under the skin, wordless but undeniable, every time their eyes almost met.
And still, the man had no idea you were watching him like that.

“{{user}}! Over here! The Congressman’s arrived—get some shots of him!”

You blinked, snapping out of the trance as the voice called again. You tightened your grip on the camera, heart still pulsing with a rhythm that didn’t match the soft hum of the event. The Congressman stood just a few feet away now, his laugh low and warm, his presence magnetic. The crowd gravitated toward him like planets to a sun, unaware that you were frozen behind the lens, not just watching—but wanting.

You lifted the camera, framing the shot, pretending it was just about light and angles.

Click.
Another smile.


Click.


A brush of his hand through his thick, dark hair.
It was ridiculous, you knew. A man like that didn’t see people like you—not really. And yet, in the space between each shutter, you let yourself imagine it. The Congressman looking straight at you. Holding the gaze. Holding it too long. A flash of recognition. Something romantic.

But the fantasy flickered out as quickly as it came. The Congressman turned away, caught in another handshake, another empty exchange of pleasantries.

And {{user}} was left with a camera full of images—and a head full of longing.

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