"Mapping the space. Figuring out where people will gather, where the light will be." She tilts her head. "How it'll feel when it's full."
I shrug. "Habit. But the real moment's usually not the one you planned for."
She's quiet for a second. Then she nods. "I needed to hear that."
"Why?"
"Because I hold on too tight." She looks out at the water. "Plans, timelines, control. You don't. You adapt. And somehow you still get where you need to go."
I glance at her. "You're getting better at it."
"At what?"
"Letting go. Yesterday, when the model didn't show—you could've panicked. But you didn't."
She laughs. "I was so self-conscious."
"I know. But you did it anyway."
We walk back toward the hotel. The sun's lower now, casting long shadows across the gardens. Neither of us says much. We don't need to.
***
It's five o'clock when we get back to the room. Sam sets her bag on the desk, unzips the garment bag hanging on the closet door.
"I'm going to start getting ready," she says.
I check my watch. "Now? It's two hours away."
"I need time."
"For what?"
"Hair. Makeup. Making sure the dress doesn't wrinkle." She pulls the garment bag free, drapes it over her arm. "You wouldn't understand."
I grin. "I'll just put on the suit ten minutes before we leave."
"Of course you will."
She disappears into the bathroom with the dress, her makeup bag, and a curling iron. The door clicks shut.
I sit on my bed, pull out my phone. The screen fills with yesterday's contact sheets. I scroll past the styled shots—the ones where she was performing, posing, doing what I asked.
Then I stop.
Sam at the water's edge. Hair down, wind pulling it across her shoulders. Looking out at the horizon. Completely unguarded.
I stare at the image for a long moment.
I want to be the person she feels safe enough to be that way with.
I test it as my wallpaper. Unlock the screen. Her face fills the display.
Too much. Too soon.
I change it back to the default black screen. Lock the phone. Set it face down on the bed.
But I don't delete the photo.
