“You didn’t exactly ask.”
He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair point.”
“So,” I say, folding my arms, “what’s the verdict? Forgot to buy milk or just stalking your new favourite photographer?”
His grin crooks sideways. “Maybe both.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You know, subtlety isn’t your strength.”
He steps closer to the counter, lowering his voice. “And yet, here you are still talking to me.”
I hate how right he is. “Touché.”
He reaches for a bottle of water, twisting the cap but not drinking. “I left you that ticket because I figured you’d get better shots from lower down. Didn’t know if you’d actually show.”
“Of course I did. Wouldn’t miss the chance to photograph the madness up close.”
“Madness?”
“Yeah. You play like you’re running from something.”
He freezes, just a second, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then he exhales, a low laugh escaping. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Occupational hazard.”
There’s something different about him today. Softer around the edges, maybe. Or just tired. The kind of tired that seeps past bone and into thought.
“Good photos?” he asks finally.
“Maybe.” I tilt my head, enjoying the flicker of anticipation in his eyes. “Not sure if I should show you yet. You might get a big head.”
He laughs, leaning on the counter. “Too late for that.”
“Figured.”
His gaze lingers, steady and a little too intense. “Still limping?”
I glance down, caught. “Occupational hazard,” I echo, but my smile wobbles.
He frowns. “You shouldn’t be on your feet all day.”
“You planning on telling my boss that?”
“Maybe I should.”
The way he says it, all quiet and sincere, does something odd to my chest. No one’s worried about me in a long time. Not since before the accident.
“Don’t,” I say softly. “I need the hours.”
His jaw tightens, he wants to argue but knows he shouldn’t. “At least tell me you’ve got a lift home.”
“I take the bus.”
He shakes his head. “Next time, I’ll?—”
“Don’t even think about it,” I cut in. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
