I'll be there,I type back, my thumbs hitting the glass screen with unnecessary force.We need to align on shot priority in person.
I reread my response. It's controlled. Functional. It doesn't reveal the absolute tightness in my chest.
If I can't control what gets uploaded to the cloud, I will physically control what gets captured in the lens.
I block my entire Tuesday morning on the calendar, telling myself it is quality assurance, not panic. I plan a surgical ninety-minute walkthrough, enforce the shot list, supervise the angles, and get back to the office by eleven.
When I arrive at the Ironworks south gate at 8:00 AM sharp, I march toward the perimeter, my boots crunching aggressively through the loose gravel, my printed shot list clutched in my hand like a shield. I expect an efficient walkthrough.
Instead, I see a man waiting by the security kiosk with two coffees and a site map spread across the hood, and my perfectly structured plan evaporates.
It's him.
My feet completely forget how to move. The collision replays vividly in my mind. The dark coffee soaking into his canvas jacket. Those furious green eyes glaring down at me while I aggressively dabbed at his chest with cheap napkins, babbling about my brothers like an absolute lunatic.
Heat instantly crawls up my neck.
Of all the photographers in this city. Of all the people Marketing could have hired for the single biggest project of my career.
It's the guy I dumped half a latte on.
I adjust my bag strap. Pull my printed shot list from the side pocket. Maybe he doesn't remember my face. He was more concerned about his lens than anything I said.
I force my shoulders back. Make my feet work. Keep walking toward the gate like none of this matters.
Professional. That's all this needs to be.
But then his head lifts. He sees me.
His expression shifts. Recognition. Confusion. Recalibration.
We both freeze.
The silence stretches. Three seconds. Four. He stares a beat too long before he speaks.
"You're Sam Morgan."
Not a question. It’s an accusation. His voice is the exact same low, rough rumble that snapped at me outside the Donut.
I grip my printed shot list tighter. "And you're the photographer Marketing hired."
His eyes flick down to my travel mug, a blatant, challenging reminder of the coffee I dumped all over his chest yesterday. Then he looks back up, his jaw set.
"Right," he says, his tone clipped. "Let's go over the plan."
I pull out my printed shot list. Twelve angles, one visit. I hand it to him like I'm presenting evidence.
He glances at it for three seconds. Then sets it on top of his gear bag without reading further.
The dismissal reminds me of the Donut collision. Camera before apology.
My pulse spikes. "Did you even look at it?"
"I looked." He zips the bag without looking up. "It's a starting point."
The wordstartinglands like a challenge.
"It's the complete list." My voice stays level, but my shoulders tighten. "Everything the bid team needs."
