I slung the camera fully into my hands, pulse thrumming. “Outside. The light’s better.”
He hesitated just long enough for me to notice.
Then he stood.
We stepped out onto the narrow strip of pavement by the café, the river glinting nearby, the city moving around us likeit didn’t realize anything important was happening. The sun hit him just right—carving shadows along his cheekbones, catching the faint scar on his hand, lighting him from the side like a study in restraint.
I lifted the camera again.
Click.
Click.
He watched me watch him, something feral and contained flickering behind his eyes.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered without shame. “I’m done pretending I don’t.”
I circled him slowly, photographing the way his hands curled loosely at his sides, the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze never left me even when my lens wasn’t on his face.
“This is new for you,” he said.
“So is being stopped,” I shot back, and his breath hitched.
I stopped directly in front of him, close enough that my camera brushed his chest when I lowered it.
“I don’t want to be managed,” I said. “And I don’t want to disappear into you. But I do want you.”
The words felt dangerous and true.
He held my gaze for a long moment, the city blurring around us.
“Then you should know,” he said slowly, “that if you keep pushing like this, I will push back.”
My pulse leapt.
I smiled. “Good.”
For a split second, something like hunger flashed openly across his face before he masked it again.
He leaned in—not kissing me, not touching—just close enough that his voice brushed my ear.
“Tonight,” he murmured. “We talk.”
I swallowed. “And after?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“We’ll see how brave you still feel.”
He stepped back then, creating space even as the promise lingered between us.
I watched him walk away down the street, my body humming, my camera heavy in my hands, my desire no longer quiet.
15
CONNOR
