“Film… that’s what these are from?” He points to the hanging photos—personal shots of the woods out back.
“Yeah. This room doubles as a darkroom, where I develop the photos.”
Elijah whistles, and I notice that he’s not drinking from his cup. “Impressive.”
I watch him as he walks around, taking in my equipment and shooting me glances every few seconds. It’s odd to have someone here, let alone him. But I also kind of like it.
Once he grows tired of snooping, Elijah sets his drink on the closest empty surface and grabs my camera again. He approaches, only stopping a foot or two in front of me.
My heart is beating so loudly that I almost don’t hear him when he speaks.
“Take my picture.”
“S-sorry?” I stutter.
He tilts his head just slightly. “Take my picture and develop it.”
“But… I don’t take pictures of people,” I say, leaning further into the desk behind me, almost as if to escape him. But there is no escape.
Elijah watches me closely.“Why not?”
“Because it feels… too personal?” It comes out as a question, as if I’m unsure.
“Personal?” he pushes.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “This is my one thing. And when I start involving others, it…”
“Becomes theirs too?” Elijah asks, filling in the blanks. I’m staring at him—a piece of glass ready to shatter, completely transparent—and my hands are shaking.
He’s right on the money, and it’s a rule I’ve lived by my entire life. Butfuck, if I don’t want to capture his hazel eyes on film.
“Exactly,” I choke out, and he grins.
“What if I told you that this thing of yours wouldn’t become mine,” he bargains, taking a step toward me and resting the camera against my chest, “but that a piece ofmewould becomeyours?”
Chapter Eight
Rowan
I‘m not breathing. I’m wide-eyed, staring down at him as he peers up, lashes brushing his high cheekbones with every blink. And his skin is so soft to look at, so unblemished and pure.
I want this piece of him. I want to take it and keep it for myself.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. The word leaves me as a harsh breath would. A scared confession.
“Where do you want me?”
God, I wish he’d stop talking to me like that. Why does everything he says have to sound so filthy?!
“Just… stay there," I mumble.
After making sure the camera is loaded and ready, that all the settings are correct for the lighting and the portrait, I take a deep breath and raise it.
Benjam—Elijah stares at me, no trace of a smile on his face as he watches me through the lens. No, that’s not right. He’s not looking at the camera at all. He’s watchingmeso intently, socuriously. As if he’s figuring me out, as if he’s learning me with every breath, every move I make.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at him through the camera. My two favorite things combined into one—Benjamin and photography.
Only—this is Elijah—and I’m terrified of what will happen when the shutter goes off.
