Wait and see what the stranger wants
From Create Your Own Story
The man moves toward the two of you with deliberate, unhurried steps, his polished leather shoes scuffing lightly against the pavement. His mouth curves into an easy, practiced smile as his gaze shifts between you and Kevin, taking in your postures, your clothes, the way you lean slightly toward each other in private conversation.
His dark hair, cropped short but thick with just the hint of a curl, catches the light as he tilts his head. His face is angular but softened by laugh lines—handsome in a way that suggests he was even more striking a decade ago. His deep brown eyes linger a beat too long, assessing. Broad-shouldered and trim, he carries himself with the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly how he comes across. You guess he's probably in his late forties, maybe early fifties—older than your dad, sure, but with a vitality that makes age feel irrelevant.
"How can we help you?" you ask, the words sharper than you intend, cutting through the unspoken tension of his approach.
He chuckles, low and smooth. "I'm sorry to bother you boys," he says, raising his hands slightly in a mock surrender. "Name's Mike." His eyes flick between you again, lingering just a moment longer on Kevin. "I’ve been looking for guys like you—young, fresh, good-looking. Got a job opportunity, if you’re interested."
Kevin exhales through his nose, unimpressed. "What kinda job?"
Mike's smile widens, revealing teeth just a shade too white. "Modeling gig," he says casually, as if he’s offering directions to the nearest coffee shop. His hand lands on your shoulder, his thumb pressing lightly against the fabric of your shirt. "Small-scale thing—local brand my company reps. They need their new line shot for the website ASAP. Couple photos, that’s it. Easy money."
You and Kevin exchange a glance, eyebrows raised. You can’t help the half-laugh that escapes—this whole situation feels surreal.
Mike drops his hand, sensing the hesitation. "Look," he continues, shifting tactics, "it’s nothing crazy. You pose in some shirts, maybe a pair of jeans, we snap a few shots, and you walk away with thirty bucks each. Plus," he adds, like an afterthought, "you get to keep one item from the shoot."
"Thirty bucks?" Kevin repeats, voice flat.
Mike spreads his hands. "For an hour’s work? Come on, boys—. Just to stand there looking pretty." His grin turns conspiratorial.
Do you
tell him you not interested at all and to get lost
