Still on for tomorrow? 5:30 is early. Don't make me feel bad about the alarm.
I stare at the screen.
I shouldn't be smiling.
I stare at the screen. The tone is easy. Teasing. He remembers I run at 5:30. He remembers I hate missing it.
But the paper in my hand is proof of the one fact I've been ignoring since we almost kissed in the dark: he is still the guy who climbed a fire escape rather than wait for a key. My entireprofessional reputation is tied to a man who thinks rules don't apply to him.
I type back.
See you there. I'll bring the coffee.
I drop the phone in my bag. Then I take the printout. I fold it once. I slide it into the front pocket of my bag, right next to the site keys.
One is for access. The other is for evidence.
I zip the bag shut. The sound is final.
I'm not going to the site tomorrow to chase the dawn light. I'm going to confront him. I need to see if the man who defended my design in the boardroom is willing to be honest with me when nobody else is watching.
I pick up my bag and walk out.
Chapter fourteen
Tom
The sky is still navy when I reach the south gate at five twenty-three. Two minutes early.
This is usually my favorite time of day—the blue hour, when the city is quiet and the light is soft and directionless. No crew noise, no traffic. Just the work.
Not today.
Sam is standing five feet from the gate, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. Her jaw is set hard, and her eyes are locked on the card reader. I stop walking, waiting for her to acknowledge me, but she doesn't look over. She doesn't wave or say good morning. She just pulls one hand out of her pocket and slaps her key card against the plastic reader.
The gate beeps and unlocks.
"Gate's open."
Her voice is dead flat and hyper-professional, the exact same icy tone she uses with Richard. It is a massive, jarring pivot from Wednesday night, when we sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the site office, sharing Pad See Ew and staring at each other's mouths.
I shift my camera bag higher on my shoulder and walk through, but Sam is already moving. She heads toward the eastern boundary with her shoulders tight and her stride clipped.
I follow her in silence. The site is entirely empty—no hard hats, no machinery, just raw steel beams and concrete pads stretching out toward the dark water. The streetlights are still buzzing, throwing long, warped shadows across the gravel. My boots crunch loudly on the loose stone, and hers echo ten feet ahead of me.
Usually, she asks about the shot list. Usually, she makes a dry comment about the cold. Just last week, she brought me coffee without even asking what I wanted and got the order exactly right. Today, I get nothing. Her back is to me, her coat zipped entirely to her chin.
She’s quiet. Too quiet.
We reach the eastern perimeter where the light is perfect. It’s soft, diffused, with just enough contrast to make the steel beams look intentional instead of abandoned. I set my bag down on a concrete pad and crouch beside it. Sam stops three feet behind me.
I pull out my camera and check the lens. She doesn't move.
I stand up and frame the first shot through the viewfinder. The beams cut clean lines against the lightening sky. I adjust the aperture and check the focus. Sam is still standing there.
I lower the camera. "You good?"
"Fine."
