I glanced at her, really looked this time. Despite the hours on set, her makeup was still effortless, her eyes alert in a way that made her seem more awake than the room itself. There was a depth there that made me want to linger, like if I stayed still long enough I might understand something about myself.
“You sound like you’re about to tell me I look tired,” I said.
“I could,” she replied — but then one of the stylists stepped in, adjusting her hair, unclipping it so it fell in a dark, soft cascade over one shoulder.
We stayed suspended in that half-second of waiting, neither of us moving.
When the stylist finally stepped away, she shot me a small grin. “Where were we?”
“I think you were about to insult me,” I said dryly.
That earned me a real laugh — the kind that reached her eyes and shifted her whole expression. “Yes, I was. But I decided against it.”
“Generous.”
She tilted her head, considering me. “I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”
“Does anyone enjoy being told they look like they’re running on fumes?”
Her lips pursed into an exaggerated, teasing pout. “Probably not.”
I turned back toward my camera, but she drifted closer, close enough that I felt her before I saw her — the warmth of her, the quiet brush of her against my senses.
Her mouth was near my ear when she said, softly,
“What Iwantto tell you is that you look like someone who forgot how to laugh.”
I lifted my camera and pretended I needed to check my framing. The truth was, I didn’t trust my face.
The shoot ran long, then suddenly didn’t. Someone cut a look. The client was happy. The photographer said, “That’s a wrap,” with the kind of relief that felt like permission to breathe again.
People started dissolving—coats pulled on, gear packed, makeup wiped away. The set broke down with practiced speed.
I didn’t even see her get changed, but she was just there—dressed in jeans and a Henley with a light jacket. She stretched her arms overhead like a cat, spine arching, joints popping softly. Then she looked at me with that easy smile that never felt like a trap.
“Well,” she said. “We’re done early.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket like it was warning me.
A reminder.
A meeting.
A deadline.
Something that wanted me.
She nodded toward the door. “Drink?” Her voice stayed casual, but her eyes didn’t flick away. “Right now. No rain checks.”
My body said yes before my brain could catch up.
I could already picture it: a bar, low light, a glass sweating on a table, her voice close enough to feel like warmth. The simple pleasure of doing something without squeezing it between obligations.
Then my calendar screamed.
Not literally.
Worse—silently, inside my head.
