He nodded slowly, like he was letting that sink in.
“Can I get you a little closer together?” Sadie called.
Without thinking—again—I cupped his face and drew him in, smiling when his eyes widened. His other hand landed on my waist to steady himself.
“That’s great,” Sadie said. “Danny, relax your hands. One at his neck, the other on his chest.”
I followed her instructions.
“Perfect.”
The sun was higher now, and the way it caught his face made me realize his eyes weren’t brown. They were hazel, little sparks of green and gold dancing in his irises. Beautiful.
Jessie licked his lips, tension still humming through him. “What do you do?”
“Like for work?”
He nodded.
“I don’t,” I said, and I hated how small that sounded next to him. “I graduated in the spring. Now I’m just kind of… waiting.”
He frowned. “On job applications?”
No. On life, I guess.
I shrugged.
“How old are you?” Those captivating eyes drifted over my face and down my neck and chest, making me feel exposed in the best way.
“Twenty-two. You?”
Looking at his face was already addictive. He might not have been very talkative so far, but his expressions gave everything away. Tiny shifts, fleeting tells, like his thoughts kept leaking out before he could stop them.
Right now, he looked a little surprised. Maybe apprehensive. Older, then.
“Twenty-six.”
Called it.
“Where are you from?”
“Visalia, in Cali.” He cleared his throat. “I moved here five years ago. Probably staying for the long haul.”
My stomach dipped at that. It shouldn’t have. I’d known him for minutes, and my heart was already getting ahead of itself.
“Okay, guys, let’s move into another position,” Sadie said as she walked closer.
We stepped apart, still glancing at each other, my hands suddenly cold despite the hot summer morning.
The next set of pictures had us sitting on our boards in the sand, knees brushing, leaning in close. The sun was higher now, warm on my shoulders, the air thick with humidity and the soft hiss of waves rolling in beside us. The shutter faded into a gentle, steady rhythm as I asked him about his family, needing to know more.
An only child, too. He’d lived with his mom until he left for LA for culinary school and work, which somehow led him all the way here. He told me how he learned to cook in their kitchen as a kid, standing on a chair while his grandmother showed him how to season by smell instead of measurements; how his mom trusted him with the stove long before she probably should have. Cooking wasn’t just a job for him—it was history. Muscle memory. Love passed down and carried forward.
I tucked each detail away like it was precious. The more he told me, the more real he felt. Like he was trusting me with something private.
I almost told him then—about the cliffs, about how I liked places where no one knew my name, about my real life beneath what everyone else saw—but that moment felt too full to interrupt.
Then we walked into the water together. Just the two of us, hands linked, the sea cool around our ankles and calves, sunlight glinting off the surface and into his eyes. It was harder to talk like that, but I didn’t want to stop. I caught bits about his chaotic apartment, his roommates, the way he laughed when he talked about them, and it all felt… right. Lived in.
