I let myself imagine it instead—how his mouth had felt against mine last night, firm and controlled, like he’d been holding back something far more dangerous. I imagined the taste of him lingering, the heat of that restraint turning into pressure, into something that could make my knees weak, if I let it.
I imagined that mouth lower, closer.
The thought sent a sharp wave through me.
Good.
I met his eyes again, letting him see exactly where my attention had been.
I didn’t give him time to recover.
“You left me frustrated,” I said, matter-of-fact, like I was commenting on the weather.
A beat.
Then his brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face before it smoothed into something wary and amused. “Did I?”
“Yes.” I leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance deliberately. “And I decided I don’t want to be polite about it.”
His gaze dropped—to my mouth, my collarbone, the camera strap cutting between my breasts—then returned to my eyes.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
“No,” I replied just as quietly. “Not careful.”
The words seemed to land. His jaw flexed. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, slow and measured, like he was choosing proximity instead of falling into it.
“What are you doing here, Mila?” he asked.
I didn’t deflect. Didn’t soften it.
“I came looking for you.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and electric.
“Why?” he asked, though his body language suggested he already knew the answer.
I lifted my camera and aimed it at him.
Click.
He stilled, caught mid-breath.
“You,” I said, lowering the lens just enough to meet his eyes, “have been haunting my frame since last night.”
His lips parted slightly, then pressed together again, like he was reining himself in.
“That’s dangerous territory,” he said.
“I’m a photographer,” I replied. “I go where the tension is.”
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
I stood abruptly, the movement decisive. He tracked me instantly, alert.
“Come with me,” I said.
“To where?”
