I let him whisk.
He clears his throat. Sharp. Like he’s shaking himself out of it. It looks like a small effort to stay on track and resist the urge to make out with me.
“Tell me what else is on the agenda?”
“The agenda?” I lift a strawberry to my mouth.
His hand snaps out and takes it away. “These need to be washed.”
I pout, and his eyes darken.
“Your solo retreat.” The words sound painful for him to say. “Are you painting sunsets? Writing bad poetry in small B&Bs?”
I smirk and wrap my fingers around the edge of the counter to keep from reaching out again. “Photography.”
His expression changes. “What kind of photography?” Genuine curiosity softens his voice.
I’m used to fading into corners. Letting louder people take up the light.
But somehow, with him, the conversation always turns back toward me.
“Urban landscapes. Night shots. People I barely know.” I default to short, choppy answers.
Short answers are safer—less space to be seen.
“People you barely know? Like me?”
“I feel like we know each other a little more than barely.”
He chuckles, adding vanilla and sugar without measuring. “Fair.” His gaze settles back on me. “So what is it about night shots?” He doesn’t look away when he asks.
Like he’s actually waiting. Like my answer matters. He turns it back to me, like he’s not done listening yet.
One answer leads to another, then another, and before I realize it, I haven’t stopped talking.
He has a way of drawing things out of me I’ve long packed away. Prying them loose.
The more I talk, and the more he listens, the version of me who believed photography could be more than a hobby lets herself imagine galleries and bylines and a life shaped by what I’d once seen through that lens.
It’s thrilling.
Terrifying.
Alive.
By the time the whisk slows, my insides are alive again with pure desire to chase my dream.
He stops whisking, but when he looks at me, he waits. Like he knows I’m right on the edge of saying something that matters.
The moment hits me hard. Harder than he’ll ever know. Not because he gave me anything, but because he made space for me to remember what I already want. And in that space, my dream comes rushing back—whole, and unmistakably mine.
And when he finishes, he holds up the whisk.
“Go on.” A mischievous grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Lick it.”
My stomach flips hard.
I lean in, and my tongue darts over the cold metal. The soft cream melts across my tongue—sweet, fluffy, and vanilla-rich.
