Page 103 of Impulse Control
The way he frowned at his laptop like it had personally betrayed him. The way he tucked one foot under the chair whenhe concentrated. The way he smiled at me over the rim of his mug like he was already amused by whatever I was about to say.
He caught me once and lifted his phone, snapping a selfie of us when I leaned over his shoulder, my arms around him, my face half-hidden in his neck.
“Evidence,” he said.
I pretended to scoff, but later I realized I hadn’t deleted any of the photos I’d taken of him.
By Sunday afternoon, he knew how to give my coffee order in perfect French. By Monday, he was reminding me where I’d left my camera batteries.
And somehow that felt more intimate than the sex.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. Just… domestic. Casual. Like a detail in the background of a frame that suddenly became the focal point.
Which was maybe the most dangerous part. It felt absurdly intimate in the quietest ways. No big gestures. No declarations.
JustDominic, here in my space like he belonged. It was all the things I’d resisted in New York. I told myself I was slowing down because he was there.
That was a lie.
I wasn’t slowing down.
I was stacking more on top.
I woke up earlier. Stayed up later. Took meetings on the métro. Edited between classes. Answered René’s emails while brushing my teeth. If I couldn’t make more time, I’d just make better use of the time I already had.
Which meant I was surviving on caffeine, sex, and the same Frankie-level optimism I normally only used when I’d ruined a shot and insisted it was “art.”
I refused to call it denial. I called it power working — overexposing the frame and pretending the glare was intentional. These kinds of all-nighters had gotten me throughhigh school and my first two years of college. It would get me through this too. I just had to keep the shutter open long enough.
Dominic fell asleep faster than I did. He always had. Somewhere around midnight, his breathing would even out, one arm draped over my waist like he needed to touch me in order to rest — or maybe like he was trying to keep me from drifting so far ahead I forgot where I was.
I loved that about him. The way he existed so fully in whatever moment he was in. The way he didn’t have to tear strips of himself off just to keep everything moving.
Even carving out these days — whole, uninterrupted days — to spend with me, like it was the easiest decision in the world. Like time with me didn’t have to compete with anything else.
I’d lie there for a while, letting myself be held. Letting myself pretend that this — his warmth, the quiet, the city softened outside my windows — was enough.
That I could just stay like this. Curled against him. Breathing in the same air. Not moving toward anything. Not becoming anything. Not proving anything.
That I didn’t need to get up and work. That I didn’t need to finish every assignment or answer every message or keep every version of my life running in parallel.
But eventually my brain would start ticking again. Softly at first. Then louder. The edits I still hadn’t finished. The emails I hadn’t answered. The version of myself I was supposed to be in twelve hours.
And underneath all of it — the quietest thought, the one I never said out loud — was this.
I didn’t want to disappointhim.
Not by being absent. Not by being tired. Not by being anything less than the version of me he’d flown across an ocean to see.
So I’d slip out of bed as carefully as I could, easing his arm off my waist like I was sneaking away from something sacred. Then I’d go make coffee and pretend I wasn’t already exhausted.
The apartment looked different at two in the morning. Less charming. More honest. The mess I’d half-organized during the day became obvious in the dark — stacks of prints leaning against walls, lenses I hadn’t put back in their cases, notes taped to the fridge like I was living inside a to-do list.
I’d sit on the floor with my laptop, back against the couch, editing in the dark so the glow wouldn’t wake him. Nudging exposure. Softening highlights. Renaming files like I could organize my life one label at a time. Sending emails I’d promised myself I’d send “tomorrow.”
Tomorrow kept arriving faster than I was ready for it.
By Wednesday — almost a week after he arrived — I’d stopped pretending I wasn’t tired.
