Page 131 of Impulse Control
“Sure,” she said, a grin tugging at her mouth. “And I’m a cactus.”
That made me laugh, unexpectedly real. A crew member glanced over at the loud sound that escaped me.
“You’re here a lot,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her expression shifted—still easy, but something more down-to-earth beneath it. “Yeah. It’s been a weird run. I keep ending up on the same sets. Different jobs. Different photographers. Even different products. But the same sets with some of the same people.” Then she lifted one shoulder,that smile flirting with her perfectly red lips again. “Not complaining.”
The words hung between us.
NotI’m not complaining about work.
NotI’m not complaining about the hours.
NotI’m not complaining about seeing the same faces over and over again.
Just—
Not complaining.
I swallowed and forced my attention back to my camera, to the settings, to the safe, mechanical part of myself that knew how to do this without ever risking anything.
“I’m glad,” I said, and it was a struggle to push those out. When she gave me a most curious look, I tried to shrug off my own awkwardness. “Clearly, not enough coffee in me today.”
“Ah,” she exhaled that single syllable like it was the answer to everything. Taking advantage of that moment to turn away, I went back to double-checking everything because suddenly, I was having trouble focusing on what we were here for.
I had it under control, mostly, by the time the shoot started.
It was an editorial for a mid-range brand that wanted to look expensive. Hard light. Sharp angles. Mood like a perfume ad—beautiful and slightly hostile. They wanted it to feel like you were missing out on a power move by not having this mid-range brand in your life.
The photographer gave direction that sounded like orders.
“Chin down.”
“Turn. Stop. Hold.”
The model obeyed like a machine built for being looked at.
She—the nameless girl—was part of the story today. Not the lead, but present in the frames, woven into the narrative like a secondary note that still mattered. She hit her marks, tookher cues, shifted her expression on command with the kind of discipline that made it look easy.
But between setups, when the room exhaled, she always drifted back toward me.
Not hovering. Not clinging.
The first time, she actually brought me coffee.
The second time, she studied the secondary shots I was taking. The photographer was going for these really hard, almost oversaturated exposures, so I was using a softer lens. I told myself it was to give more options, but it was also that I liked people to actuallylooklike people.
At one point, the photographer stepped away to check shots with the client. The stylists swarmed the model. Someone asked for a reflector. Someone dropped a clip. Someone swore under their breath.
And there she was beside me again, leaning close enough that I could smell her perfume — something citrus and clean, like a cut orange, like cold water on hot skin, like a morning that didn’t start with dread.
“You’re very focused,” she murmured.
“That’s my job.” No matter how lightly I tried to play it, I was suddenly very aware of her proximity. Maybe a little too aware.
“No,” she said softly, and the way she lowered her voice did all kinds of dangerous things to her accent. “I mean… it’s impressive.”
The word snagged in my brain. Not because it wasn’t nice — impressive usually was — but because the way she said it felt like praise wrapped in concern.
