I didn’t pretend to organize files or review contact sheets. I retrieved my bag and left before my doubt could catch up with me. I had my camera out before I made it to the front door, fingers already checking my settings by muscle memory. My hands moved faster than my thoughts these days. That felt like progress. It definitely worked to shove Dominic to the back of my mind.
Paris outside was gray and sharp, the kind of light that flattened faces if you weren’t careful. I adjusted my settings on the fly, letting instinct take over. René wanted disruption. Not stillness. Not drama. Not—well, he wanted what he didn’t have and I was going to give him what I couldsee.
Truth.
I walked.
Markets. Alleys. Metro entrances. Places where movement happened whether anyone was watching or not.
I photographed hands first. Old ones. Young ones. Scarred, manicured, restless. I photographed backs and profiles and the exact moment someone realized they were being seen and didn’t bother to stop it.
I didn’t ask permission.
That was new.
At one point, I raised my camera toward a woman arguing softly into her phone, pacing the edge of a crosswalk like the world had wronged her personally.
She looked straight at me.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl.
Just held my gaze. Disapproval radiated off of her.
I took the shot.
My pulse kicked hard, then settled.
When I finally returned to the Daily, my memory card was full and my legs ached in that satisfying, earned way. I dumped the files into my workspace and started culling without overthinking it.
No romance. No polish.
Just moments that didn’t wait for me to be ready.
René appeared behind me without warning.
He leaned in, eyes scanning the screen.
Silence stretched.
I didn’t explain.
I didn’t apologize.
Finally, he pointed.
“This,” he said. “And this.”
Then another.
“And this.”
He straightened. “You missed one.”
I frowned. “Which?—”
“The one you almost took,” he said. “Your hand moved.”
I stilled. Shit. My hand had moved. Someone had whistled behind me and it had sounded like?—
