For a moment, the world feels very still, the kind of stillness that isn’t cold or empty — it’s the space before something shifts.
Justin calls my name from behind, and the moment breaks. Emma steps back, brushing her gloves again.
“You should go,” she says gently.
“Yeah,” I answer. “See you around?”
A long beat.
“Probably,” she says, though her voice makes it sound like a question she doesn’t want to answer yet.
I nod once and turn back toward the team.
But even as I walk away, I feel it — the pull of her behind me. A steady, insistent tug beneath my ribs.
I don’t do temporary well. I told her that.
The problem is, I think she’s starting to figure out I meant it.
SEVEN
EMMA
I’m standing at the kitchenette in my cabin, waiting for water to boil and trying very hard not to think about Kendrick’s hands, mouth, chest, everything—not necessarily in that order—when my phone lights up.
Subject: Wildest Dreams Proposal — Gallery Review
My stomach drops straight through the floorboards.
I open it before I can breathe myself out of it.
Emma,
We’ve reviewed the preliminary shots you sent and we’re impressed. If you can finalize your series by the end of the month, we’d like to move forward with a winter showcase. Send the full set by next Friday. This is the opportunity we discussed. It’s yours if you want it.
—Mara
My fingers tighten around the phone.
This is what I came here for. This is what I left New York for. This is what I uprooted my entire life for—raw, real, honest work that means something.
It should feel good.
It should feel incredible.
Instead, a pressure settles in my chest. Heavy. Breath-thinning.
Because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like just an opportunity.
It’s a deadline. An ending.
And endings never arrive alone. They take things with them.
I turn off the kettle before it screams, pressing my palms flat on the countertop.
I should be excited. I should be jumping up and down. I should be texting everyone I know.
Instead, all I can think is:
