Julianne nodded. “We keep that.”
The shoot ended with a wrap-up rush—thank yous, quick notes, exchanging files. I promised a turnaround time. Accepted compliments that floated around me like confetti I didn’t know what to do with. Packed my gear.
When I stepped outside again, Paris had shifted into that early evening mood—sky pale but thickening, streetlights thinking about coming on, the city bracing for night.
I should’ve felt relief.
Instead, anticipation crawled up my spine.
Dinner.
Connor wasn’t a fantasy anymore. Not a blur in a shop window. Not a name spoken in candlelight.
He was real. He had bought me coffee. He had looked at me like he wanted something and still stopped.
And the simple fact that he’d stopped—willingly, deliberately—made my body react with a kind of heat that embarrassed me.
I walked home slower than I meant to, letting myself drift past storefronts and cafés, letting the city press against me in its constant, physical way. I practiced French in my head. I counted my steps. I tried to pretend I wasn’t rehearsing what I’d say to him at dinner.
Hi, nice to see you, thank you for?—
No. Too polite. Too American.
What do you do for work?
Absolutely not. I wasn’t a recruiter.
How did you find me?
Also no.
By the time I reached my building, my mind had tied itself in a knot. I climbed the stairs with that familiar burn in my thighs, the private reminder that my body was here whether my mind wanted to cooperate or not.
Inside, I dropped my bag, set my camera on the desk, and stared at the room.
This apartment had been a respite when I first arrived in Paris. Pale and imperfect and quiet. A place where no one knew my name.
Now it felt like a stage.
My phone buzzed.
Amaya:Tu es vivante?
I snorted and typed back:Yes. Alive. Also, you sent me into an orgy.
The reply came fast.
Amaya:I sent you into a room. You stayed.
My fingers hovered.
Because that was true.
I hadn’t stayed because I was reckless. I’d stayed because it had felt … educational. Like watching bodies move with ease had unlocked something in me I’d kept caged for years.
Back home, sex had always come with a script. A before and after. A posture you held so you didn’t look too hungry or too willing or too much.
In that room, hunger was allowed.
