I walk around the table. Look down at the photo in his hands.
My ribs go tight.
It's me. At the ocean. That day at the gala weekend. The light, the water, my face completely open. Unguarded in a way I didn't know I could be.
And this is the one he brought.
"Tom..."
He meets my eyes.
"I told you. It's my favorite."
I can't look away. Can't find words that don't feel too small or too big.
So I just nod and pull my own photo from my bag.
I lay it on the worktable carefully, smoothing one corner flat where it curled slightly in transit.
Tom looks down. Recognizes it immediately.
"The northwest corner," he says. "First session."
I nod. Meet his eyes.
"This is when I fell in love with your photography."
Tom goes completely still. His fingers rest on the edge of a mat sample, but he doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
I keep going, quieter now.
"I knew the view was there. But I couldn't see it until you showed me."
The framer shifts his weight behind the table but doesn't interrupt.
"I knew then, no matter how crazy you made me, you were the only photographer I wanted to work with."
I pause, let a small smile pull at my mouth. "Turns out you're also the only person I want to drive me crazy too."
Tom's jaw shifts. He still doesn't say anything, but something in his expression softens just slightly at the edges.
The framer clears his throat and slides both photos back across the table toward us.
"Let's frame them."
We lean over the worktable together, shoulder to shoulder. The table isn't wide enough for distance. When Tom shifts his weight to look at the mat corners the framer lays out, his shoulder presses lightly into mine. I don't move away.
The framer pulls sample moldings from the wall, lays them against each print without comment. He places mat corners—cream, bone, slate—against the images, steps back, watches us evaluate.
Tom steadies one corner automatically, his fingers brushing mine where the walnut meets at the edge. We're both holding it, both looking down at the grain running diagonal across the wood.
"Too dark," I say. "It eats the sky in yours."
Tom tilts his head, considers. "You're right."
I set it back on the pile and reach for lighter oak.
I run my hand along the sample. The grain is smooth, warm-toned without being heavy. I set it down, try a lighter ash.
