Page 44 of Take My Hand

Pull it the fuck together, Carter.

But as soon as he returns, dressed only in a pair of black sweatpants that cling to him in more than a few places, I know that’s easier said than done.

17

CARTER

“Where do you want me?” Hayden says, tucking his hands into his pockets and leaning against the doorframe, his eyes scanning the setup.

There’s an empty spot in the middle for him to sit, surrounded by mirrors. Some are flat on the floor, others are propped up with cinder blocks that I charmed one of Dad’s guys into giving me years ago for shoots when I needed something heavy-duty.

I point to the center. “Right there is perfect.”

He straightens up and carefully steps around the mirrors, finding his way to the middle. Once he gets there, he hesitates and looks to me for guidance. “Should I sit, or do you want me to stand?”

I cock my head to the side, looking him over now that I have him in the center of the shot. “Does one feel more comfortable than the other to you?”

He rubs one of his hands tentatively across his jaw. “Not really,” he says with a short laugh that dies out the moment it hits the air.

His nerves are palpable, his discomfort evident.

“We don’t have to do this,” I tell him softly.

“No, I’m just not used to doing these by myself. It’s always the four of us. Sometimes, Nikolai does them on his own, being the front man and all. But me…” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t happen very often.”

I take a look around the room, trying to figure out what I can do to put him at ease. The lighting can’t be adjusted because I can’t control the sun, and I need the blinds open for the natural light.

My eyes catch on the items he dropped on the cabinet when he first came in—a handful of candles, along with a lighter and wick trimmer.

“I thought they might help the space feel more like home for you,” he says, noticing me staring at them. I walk over and pop one of the lids off, bringing it to my nose and inhaling. A rush of amber and warm cedar courses through me, bringing familiarity and relaxation to my bones.

“These are the same kind I have at my apartment,” I tell him.

“I know.”

I turn and look at him. His fingers fiddle with the drawstring of his sweatpants.

My heart swells at the thoughtfulness of him remembering what candles I have at my home and buying some for this space in his to make it feel more like my own.

“It’s my favorite. Thank you.” Overwhelmed, I break his stare, turning around and trimming one of the candles before lighting it.

Clearing my head, I grab my camera and step in front of the set up. I raise it to my eye and look through the viewfinder. Hayden tenses and I tell him, “Just testing the light quickly.”

I take the shot and pull the camera away, checking the small screen. Satisfied with what I see, I look back at him.

“Ready to start?”

“Yes,” he says, but it comes out like a question.

“It’s okay. Just relax. It’s just you and me here. I’ve seen you perform for thousands of people and not bat an eye.”

“I’m not as…exposed then.”

I know he’s not just talking about the fact that he’s standing here shirtless right now. The mirrors surround him, reflecting his body and face at all angles. There is nothing for him to do with his hands like there is when he’s onstage. No muscle memory for him to check out and rely on. No one else to take the majority of the attention away from him.

Here, it’s just him.

He tries to stand for the first few shots. I direct him to look at the floor. Hair slips over his forehead, hiding his eyes from direct line of view but not from the reflection in the mirror at his feet.

---