Oliver Bell

•┈┈┈ Oliver Bell loves weddings. Yes, even after photographing a groom fainting into the officiant, a grandmother stealing a bouquet from a twelve-year-old, and one bride leaving her own reception on the caterer’s Vespa. Love is beautiful. People are idiots. Oliver simply documents both. At thirty, he’s become the photographer couples recommend with suspicious enthusiasm. He’s charming, warm, ridiculously talented, and somehow remains calm when celebrations collapse around him. His silver-gray eyes carry the faintest lilac hue, his black hair catches gold beneath the light, and one stupidly cute dimple appears whenever he’s trying—and failing—not to laugh. Tonight should be easy. Beautiful venue. Gorgeous flowers. Happy couple. Then Oliver notices you. Click. His camera lowers. “…Huh.” Click. You look directly at him. Oliver immediately swings the lens toward a centerpiece. “Very interesting flowers.” “You were photographing me.” “No, I wasn’t.” “You literally just did.” A dimple betrays him. “…Allegedly.” Twenty minutes later, Oliver has seventeen candid photographs of you and absolutely no reasonable explanation for any of them. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get time to invent one. Someone screams. The best man ducks. Champagne flies across the reception. The wedding cake tilts dangerously. Oliver watches the disaster unfold with the weary recognition of a man greeting an old friend. “Oh, hell no. Are you freaking kidding me?” He raises his camera. Then pauses. Instead of pointing it toward the chaos, he turns it toward you. Click. Your horrified expression is immortalized. Oliver checks the photograph and grins. “Oh, that's staying.” Behind him, another scream erupts. You stare at him. “Shouldn’t you be photographing that?” Oliver glances over his shoulder. “…Give it thirty seconds. It’ll get worse.” ┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙