“An intern,” I repeat, my brow furrowing. Does she not recognize me? That’s rare in Portland, even when I’m off the ice. People always seem to know who I am. Wes ‘the Wall’, the Portland Orcas’ star goalie.
She nods, entirely unfazed. “And I promise, if you stay the entire session, I’ll even share some of my check. None of that free-labor bullshit because you’re learning.”
I gape at her, not bothering to hide my confusion. “The entire session?”
“Yep.” She nods again, more animated this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to capture the moon over the lake. The light here is perfect.” Lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a secret, her smile turns mischievous. “I might even keep a few shots for my portfolio. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the house isn’t in them so I don’t get in trouble.”
I stare at her, my brain scrambling to keep up. She’s clearly a photographer—that much is obvious from the equipment scattered around her—but why she thinks I’m her intern is beyond me.
“How long are you planning on staying?” I ask, crossing my arms.
She tilts her head, studying me with a mix of amusement and exasperation, like she’s wondering how I could be so clueless. “Obviously until I’ve scouted the house properly and found the best angles to shoot. Gotta make sure it sells, right? And then I’m waiting for the moon to be just right. You know how it is—you wait for the perfect light, the perfect moment, and then—click—you’ve got magic.”
Her words tumble out so effortlessly that I can’t help but stare at her in disbelief. “That’s, like, six hours at least.”
“Yep,” she says cheerfully, holding up a bag like it’s proof of her commitment. “I even brought us dinner. Gluten-free PB almond sandwich.”
“Yum. Gluten-free. Wow, you really know me so well,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm as I arch a brow.
“It’s more for my benefit,” she replies with a grin, completely unbothered. “But it’s good bread, I promise.”
She steps past me and punches in the code, the lock beeping softly before the door clicks open. The house welcomes us with quiet, its open spaces bathed in the golden remnants of daylight.
“So,” I say, stepping inside, my curiosity tugging at me despite myself. “Why did you decide to become a photographer of houses?”
She pauses mid-step, turning her head to glance at me. “I don’t photograph houses,” she says, almost offended. “That’s just a side gig.”
I blink, caught off guard by the flash of conviction in her voice. “Then what’s the main gig?”
Her fingers graze the strap of her camera, her expression softening into something almost wistful. “Art,” she says simply. Then, after a beat: “I do it for the art. To show people how I see the world—through my lens. The beauty. The flaws. The quietpain tucked into places people overlook. The way light finds its way in, slipping through cracks and crevices, illuminating spaces no one thought to look.”
Her voice dips, like she’s letting me in on a secret, her words flowing like the rhythm of a song you don’t realize you already know. “There’s something about catching an exact moment, something no one else would have noticed, and preserving it. Like giving it a heartbeat it didn’t have before. That’s what I love. That’s why I do it.”
I watch her, the way her eyes seem to glow when she speaks, the way her hand cradles the camera like it’s part of her. There’s something hypnotic about it—the way she talks, the way she moves, the way she looks at the world like it’s both too much and not enough.
“And houses?” I ask, my voice softer now.
She laughs, shaking her head as she moves toward the windows. “Houses pay the bills. But even they have stories. They hold the imprint of everyone who’s walked through them, who’s loved in them, who’s left them behind. If you know how to look, you can see it—layers of life, overlapping, breaking apart, coming together again.”
The room falls quiet for a moment, her words hanging between us, deeper than I’d expected. I follow her gaze to the sprawling view outside, where the lake reflects the fading light like liquid gold, rippling gently with the breeze. For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath, caught in the softness of this shared silence.
“Layers of life,” I murmur, half-teasing but thoughtful. “Deep.”
“Don’t mock me,” she says, a sharpness in her voice that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. But then she smiles, soft and unguarded, and I feel the tension slip away.
“I’m not mocking,” I reply, surprised by the honesty in my tone. “I’m just . . . impressed.”
She glances at me, her expression unreadable, her fingers still resting on her camera, like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. The way she looks at me—like she’s assessing whether I mean it or not—it stirs something in me I wasn’t expecting.
Possibility.
Her gaze drifts back to the windows, to the breathtaking view of the lake framed by tall, ancient trees. It’s the kind of view that makes you pause, the kind that feels almost sacred. “This house,” she starts, her voice quiet, almost wistful, “it’s the kind of place that feels like it’s meant for more than just living. Like it’s meant for moments. Real ones.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Real moments?”
She steps away from the window, her movements slow and deliberate as she makes her way toward the kitchen. “Yeah, like here, for instance,” she says, gesturing at the sleek countertops and the open layout. Her eyes light up as she speaks, her words painting a picture so vivid I can almost see it. “Imagine a lazy Sunday morning. Little kids with flour smudged on their faces, standing on stools because they’re helping their dad make pancakes. Except he’s terrible at it, so there’s batter everywhere—on the counters, the floor, probably the ceiling too.”
She laughs softly, the sound warm and disarming, curling around the edges of the room.
