Henry moves between them, lowering himself to their level, pointing out angles, shadows, little details adults forget to notice.
“Photography is mostly about knowing where and when to look,” I hear him explain to Noah.
Then the door opens.
Jørgen steps in, broad shoulders practically blocking the light, scanning the room until he spots his son. “Sammy,” he calls.
The boy barrels into him and immediately starts whispering, very seriously, about photographing a pigeon that looked mean. Jørgen listens, nodding solemnly, his whole focus bent toward his son.
Then he glances at Henry, and I swear there’s something sparkling in his piercing blue eyes when they land on Henry’s wiry frame.
“Thanks for this,” he says. “Sammy’s been talking about it all week.”
Henry fidgets with the strap of his camera bag and clears his throat. “He has a good eye. Caught a shadow on the basketball hoop I didn’t even notice.”
It’s not much — just words — but they land like they’re more than that. Jørgen’s smile softens, like he’s letting someone see a corner of himself he doesn’t usually show. For a beat too long, neither of them breaks the silence.
Henry’s mouth curves into the smallest of smiles. Then Sammy tugs Jørgen’s sleeve, whispering he wants juice, and the spell snaps.
Jørgen clears his throat, mutters, “Well. Uh. Appreciate it,” and heads out with his kid.
Henry lingers by the window a moment longer, gaze still caught in the light.
When the class wraps, Noah clutches my hand, buzzing with pride over his sneaker photo.
We trail after Jørgen and Sammy out to the parking lot, the kids talking about light and shadows like seasoned photojournalists.
Jørgen slows his long stride just enough that we end up side by side.“So… Henry,” he says, too casual, like the word’s a heavy stone he’s trying to toss lightly. “He doing alright these days?”
I smile. “Seems so. He’s pretty booked. Kids love him.”
Jørgen nods, like he was hoping for that answer, then adds quickly, “Right. Yeah. Just wondered. No reason, really,” he trails off, scratching his jaw.
If I weren’t so busy herding Noah and half-distracted by his chatter, I might think harder about why Jørgen asked. But I don’t. I just file it away in that quiet corner of my mind where small-town mysteries pile up like unopened letters.
Right next to the mystery of who keeps stealing the Bloom sisters’ lawn flamingos.
XADEN
The garage is quiet. Air heavy with oil and steel. The bay door’s cracked open, cicadas warming up for the day.
I’m doing pull-ups on the rig Frankie welded to the beam. Grip tight. Breath even. Muscle memory to keep the thoughts away.
But they come anyway. And they’re all about Cole.
Not Dad. Not the case.
Cole.
His stubborn face when he told me he wasn’t walking away.
His chaotic mind map with those sweetest confessions scribbledhaphazardly in the corner.
The way he feeds me without thinking — he used to be like that. Before.
How he leaned into my kiss like no time had passed.
If Caspian hadn’t shown up with his emoji mishap, what would have happened on the couch? God, it’s better I don’t think about it.
