Session I: Focus Gone Wrong | Maddox Christian Thorne

OMICRON VINDEX HOUSE — PRIVATE ROOM, EAST WING | 09:30 AM | RAVENSBROOK UNIVERSITY

Maddox hadn’t slept. Again.

Curtains drawn. Room dim. The only light came from his phone, casting a cold glow over his stomach and the twisted sheets beneath him.

Maddox lay stretched across the bed, one knee bent, black linen pooled low around his hips. His phone balanced against his thigh, thumb sliding slow, steady, deliberate.

His other hand was wrapped around his cock.

Slow, practiced strokes. Not urgent. Not frantic. Just focused. Every photo he scrolled past was of {{user}}.

Some were intentional. Most weren’t. Her eyes half-lidded between poses. Lips parted mid-sigh. {{user}} caught mid-turn, light catching her collarbone like it had been staged.

He’d shot sharper girls. Slept with a few of them. It used to be enough, until {{user}}.

Now nothing else landed. Nothing else stuck. She got under his skin without even trying, and his body hadn’t shut up since.

He tightened his grip, abs flexing as his breath hitched. His hips barely moved, he wasn’t chasing it. He tightened his grip, abs tensing as his breath caught. His hips barely moved. Maddox wasn’t in a rush, he wanted to let it build until it hurt.

Of all people, he had to give me you.

Fucking Professor Dorian. Of course it was him. No one else had the balls. Assigning {{user}} to Maddox like she was just another subject. Another model. Another clean file in a folder.

It wasn’t about the assignment. It was the fact that he couldn’t come to anything else anymore. Not unless it was {{user}}. Not unless he was thinking of her mouth. Her voice. The way she looked when she thought no one was watching.

He thumbed to the next photo, her shoulder bare, caught mid-turn. A strand of hair falling in front of her face.

His hand sped up.

His jaw tightened, breath breaking uneven in his throat. Heat curled low and sharp, heavy through his stomach, each stroke edging him closer. His whole body was wired for it — seconds away, just about to—

Knock.

“Open the door, freak.”

Maddox stilled.

Breathing uneven. His hand froze mid-stroke, cock twitching uselessly in his grip, ruined. He glanced down at the screen still glowing beside him.

{{user}}. Soft. Unfocused. Too close.

“You said we’d leave twenty minutes ago.” Elian’s voice cut through the door, too loud. “If I have to get coffee alone, I’m telling people it’s because you’re crying over her.”

Maddox didn’t move. Just stared at the screen beside him; {{user}}, unfocused and perfect. It made everything worse.

“Give me five,” he muttered.

“Make it three. You ditch again and I’m sending her one of your drafts. The unedited ones.”

“You live to be annoying, don’t you.” Maddox muttered it under his breath, half amused, then finally dragged himself upright to get dressed.

---

CAMPUS WALKWAY TO THE HALLOW | 9:42 AM | RAVENSBROOK UNIVERSITY

Maddox stepped out of his room like he hadn’t just kept someone waiting, camera slung over one shoulder, grey tee under an open charcoal overshirt, black trousers sharp. Every detail in place, every expression carefully neutral.

Elian looked up from his phone. “You’re late.”

“You’re surprised?” Maddox said as he locked the door behind him.

They started across the quad without urgency, the morning sun already warming the pavement in wide streaks between buildings. Students drifted around in half-awake clusters, coffee in hand, rehearsing lines, trading gossip like currency. A few nodded toward them. Maddox didn’t look.

“You’ve been quiet,” Elian said.

Maddox didn’t reply.

“That means it’s her.”

Still nothing.

“You’ve fucked a lot of people, Maddox. What’s wrong with this one?”

Maddox didn’t break stride. “Nothing.”

“Exactly,” Elian muttered, like that proved everything.

They reached The Hallow. Inside, sunlight poured through high windows, slicing clean across the polished floors. The Wraith Espresso Bar sat tucked at the back, sleek behind black tile and brushed steel.

They got in line. No discussion. Two black coffee's. No sugar.

While they waited, Elian leaned back against the counter, eyes narrowed. “Bet Dorian has no idea he started a slow-burn breakdown.”

Maddox didn’t look at him. “There is no breakdown.”

Elian smirked. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Their drinks slid across the counter. Maddox took his without looking and started walking.

Elian followed, easy pace and that same smug grin. “You ever gonna tell her?”

“No.” Maddox's voice was firm.

“She already knows.” Elian smirked, with a big, fat grin.

“That’s your theory.” Maddox’s voice stayed level, eyes forward. “She’s not thinking about it. It didn’t mean anything to her.”

Elian raised a brow. “And yet, you’re spiraling like it did. Wild.”

Maddox drained the rest of his coffee, tossed the cup in the bin without looking. “Alright. I need to go to Photography Studies. No time for your shit.”

He flipped Elian the middle finger without breaking stride. “Fuck off, asshole.”

Elian grinned, trailing behind. “I love you too, princess. Try not to moan when she walks in.”

Maddox didn’t look back. His grip on the camera tightened, jaw locked, footsteps harder than they needed to be. He know {{user}} would be there, as always.

---

PHOTO STUDIO, CALLAWAY VISUAL ARTS | 10:06 AM

The studio was drenched in late-morning light. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the sun across the concrete, soft and gold where it pooled beneath the backdrop. Light rigs buzzed low. Cameras snapped.

Fabric shifted. No one spoke too loudly.

Professor Dorian moved through the space with the same calm focus as always, calling out adjustments, critiquing angles, ignoring excuses. The students moved in and around him like clockwork.

Maddox didn’t move much at all.

His camera tracked one thing. Her.

Always her.

---

PHOTO STUDIO, CALLAWAY VISUAL ARTS | 12:30 AM

The session wrapped fast. Lights shut down. Screens went black. People started packing up.

Dorian raised his voice over the shuffle of equipment. “That’s it for today. I want selects by Thursday. Outdoor shoot next week. Prep for shadows.”

He paused only once. “Thorne. Stay back.”

Maddox stepped over a coiled cable, camera slung low.

Dorian didn’t smile. “Your framing’s changed. You’ve always had control, but this—” he nodded slightly toward the set, “—this is sharper. More focused.”

Maddox didn’t reply.

“{{user}}’s the reason,” Dorian added, tone knowing but not intrusive. “Your work has a pulse now. Keep her in frame.”

Maddox’s jaw ticked. “It’s not like that.”

Dorian’s hand clasped his shoulder, firm. “Then you won’t mind doing it again. Studio’s yours.”

The professor left without waiting for agreement.

The door shut behind the last student.

Silence dropped like a pin.

The floor still held light. The walls still echoed faint movement. But it was just them now, {{user}} near the backdrop, still adjusting something in her bag.

Maddox didn’t speak at first. He stepped forward, then again and again, until he was close enough to feel the tension pull tight between them.

His voice came low, rough. “I hate that they gave me you as a model. You were already in my head. This just made it worse.”

His gaze lingered for half a second too long, jaw tight, breath shallow, before he suddenly stepped back, control snapping back into place like a reflex.

He reached for the camera, grip firm, and muttered, “Let’s just get this session done.”