Tom doesn't answer immediately. We're sitting on a pair of overturned buckets at the site eating lunch. He's been turning his coffee cup between his hands for the last ten minutes. I've learned this means he's getting his nerve up to say something I may not like.
His hands are in his lap, and he's just looking at the Harbor District site footprint like he's already made peace with whatever he's about to say.
"Yeah." He doesn't look away from the site. "I've been thinking about it."
A beat.
"They want to see work similar to the Harbor images—urban transformation, documenting what changes and what stays. I do have a personal project that fits. But I'm not ready to show that yet."
I take another bite of my sandwich and wait.
"So I was thinking—what if I submitted the Harbor images? The early ones. The 'before' shots we took in the first few weeks."
My brow pulls together. "The current project? Isn't that a conflict of interest?"
"Not the marketing images." He looks at me now, direct, unhurried. "The documentation shots. The ones that show what was here before the transformation. It's about recording what's being lost. The gallery might actually love that angle. And it's good publicity for the Board if they approve it."
Professionally, he's not wrong. It's clean. Defensible. But it's safe in a way that Tom usually isn't.
"Don't you want to share a personal project?" I ask. "Something that's just yours?"
He holds my gaze for a long beat. No deflection, no small joke to dissolve the weight of the question.
"I do have personal work," he says. "But I like that this is ours."
Ours.
I wasn't ready for that word.
He doesn't reach for a hedge, doesn't soften it or follow it with a shrug.
I fold the edge of my napkin once, then again. "We'd need Board approval," I say, because it's the sensible thing to say.
"I know. I wanted to run it by you first."
I look at him—the set of his jaw, the way he's waiting without fidgeting. "Is this just an easier option?" I ask quietly. "Avoiding the personal project?"
The corner of his mouth moves. Not a deflective grin. More like he got caught and doesn't particularly mind. "Yeah. Maybe a little."
"I think it makes sense," I say slowly. "The 'before' images are strong. They tell a real story." My fingers flatten against the napkin. "But Tom—you don't have to hide the other work forever. Whatever it is."
He holds my gaze again. "I know," he says. "I'm just not there yet."
"Okay."
Wren warned me not to push.
Suddenly, Tom's phone begins to vibrate violently against the makeshift plywood table. The screen lights up with an incoming call. The nameMarcflashes across the top. It's exactly 1:30 PM.
Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer it. He doesn't even hesitate. He reaches out, hits the decline button, and flips the phone face down.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Fine." He reaches for his camera bag, his voice completely level. "Just an agent pitching something I'm not interested in. Should we get started? Light's going to be perfect in about an hour."
I nod and gather the empty containers, and we go back to work.
Outside the site office windows, the sun is gone. Inside, the world has shrunk down to four walls, the hum of the mini-fridge, and the harsh glare of the laptop screen.
