You charge through the doors of your studio, actually your boss's studio, and skid to a stop at your station, noting in passing that there were no customers. Wasn't there a 12:00 appointment in the book? You hear your boss coming up behind you,
"Where have you been?" His voice is quiet, but his tone makes you shrink back,
"I am so sorry, Marcus. It's kind of a long story, I didn't hear my alarm this morning, and I was all the way across town-"
"Save it. You've already missed the first three clients, and I really needed you. Have you ever attempted an infant photo shoot on your own?" You start to shake your head before you realize the question is rhetorical. "And without an extra pair of hands for the six sets of senior portraits that followed, it took twice as long to get through the appointments, pushing the whole day back by two hours, the last four cancelled because I wasn't able to keep their appointments."
"...I'm sorry--"
"You lost me four customers today, never mind the damage word of mouth will do."
"I'm sorry, I swear it won't happen again." You plead with him as he turns back to his own cameras. Your throat is bone dry as you wait in limbo for a response, staring at his back. Finally he sighs heavily,
"Consider this your warning. If you ever show up that late again, you're fired." His tone softens suddenly, and you wonder for a moment if he is even talking to you. "I didn't even get a phone call, Y/N. Believe it or not, I do worry about you."
"Why would you worry?" He shrugs, noncommittally,
"Look, you're a great assistant, but honestly I don't know how you manage to walk around like you do with your head in the clouds, and not step out in front of a bus, or fall down a manhole or something." You flounder for a response, unsure if you should be offended at being called an airhead, or flattered because someone cares if anything has happened to you. Marcus has never shown so much concern for you before. Granted you've never been AWOL like this either. "Just get set up," he stops you with a dismissive wave of his hand, "we have a last minute shoot this evening."
"What kind of shoot?"
"Some actor, up and coming but still under the radar. A mag nearby is doing a spread and their usual go-to is booked solid, so they called us."
An actor? That's high profile compared to the portraits that usually come his way. You both begin the set up, pulling out particular lighting equipment and appropriate backdrops, dusting off a few extra lenses. You are discussing possible props with Marcus when the wardrobe is delivered followed soon after by a middle aged, obviously business minded woman, in a shirt black dress and heels, arranging something apparently very important on her cell phone. Definitely an agent.
"You must be Mr Phillips," she says almost distractedly, though she tried to feign friendliness, extending her hand,
"I am, good to meet you Ms. Brooks, this is my assistant, Y/full/N." She shakes your hand as well, and you nod a greeting, knowing you're meant to be part of the background here anyway.
"My client should be here shortly, he got a bit hung up in traffic." She informs Marcus, tapping away on her phone,
"Naturally, this is New York, after all." He offers lightly,
"I figured we could talk over logistics before he arrives, try to make this as quick and smooth as possible."
So you're left running back and forth between tables of tools and camera parts to backdrops and wardrobe racks gathering articles as appointed by Ms. Brooks.
If the style of these clothes is any indication of who this guy really is, you may be developing a crush already. You see some of the outfits and can just imagine how the crisp white of that button down would look against slightly tanned skin, maybe stretched across broad shoulders. Or how the blue one could make his eyes stand out. Then the casual ensembles, you see a tall man catching a frisbee in Central Park, or walking with you through the Village on a Sunday afternoon.
In all honesty, though, this man could be a real pig.
You're pulled from your revery by hasty footsteps echoing down the hall into the small warehouse of a studio,
"So sorry I'm late. Construction. New York drivers, the usual. Did I miss much?" You momentarily freeze at the voice coming from the door and, turning slowly, you almost can't suppress your gasp.
As soon as he sees you his eyes go wide and both of you stare, neither knowing what to say.
Marcus and Ms. Brooks look from you to Sebastian in amused confusion,
"I take it you've met..." Brooks begins, "Mr. Phillips, Miss Y/N, my client: Sebastian Stan."
