Page 51 of Impulse Control
Including me.
Not in a way that disrupted her work—but in a way that acknowledged my presence. Like we were both aware of an intimacy in this moment, and had decided, independently, not to make it strange.
Some part of my brain continued to work even as another remained absolutely riveted on her motions. They were fluidwhen they needed to be. Abrupt when the photographer called for it. That part that continued to work noticed that René watched from the periphery, arms folded, gaze sharp.
Once my work to help with the shoot was done, I settled my hands on my camera, then adjusted my position and angle. Stepped closer. Felt the old instinct rise—the urge to hang back, to soften, to wait.
I didn’t. I didn’t get in the way, but I didn’t wait.
I lifted my camera and took the shot when the moment arrived—not after.
Her gaze flicked toward me, just for a heartbeat. Something unreadable passed between us.
Then it was gone.
The shoot wrapped efficiently. She thanked the crew, collected her things, and paused briefly beside me.
“Youarea photographer,” she said quietly, that Sydney lilt smoothing the words. “I saw you a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure. You see what you want swiftly… that’s very good.”
“Thank you,” I replied, still wrapped up in the fact she’dnoticedme. Was it the day I thought I’d seen her?
She smiled—not flirtatious, not distant. Just present.
“See you around,” she said, and then she was gone.
No lingering. No exchange. Just the echo of possibility.
And it wasn’t until she was gone that it hit me. I didn’t know her name.
By the timeI got home that night, my head was full and my body pleasantly wrecked. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and let myself sit on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than usual.
Classes. A show. Work that demanded everything.
And somewhere in the city, a model with an accent I wouldn’t forget.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I didn’t need to look.
Dominic.
I exhaled slowly, then flipped the phone face down without reading it. Not tonight.
Tonight, I needed to hold on to the shape of the life I was building—before it asked me what I was willing to give up for it.
I didn’t sit for long.
Instead, I kicked my shoes back on and wandered downstairs, still riding that strange, wired exhaustion that came from a good day’s work. Maybe I could just go for a regular walk. There was a cafe a block over. I could get some soup and bread and just—rest my brain.
Leaving my phone behind was more about not trusting myself to engage with Dominic. I needed to keep this mental space for me right now, not him. The building was quiet as usual, though Frankie mentioned two of the apartments had been rented. She sent me their names and pictures so I wouldn’t be surprised—or worried.
Voices drifted from the first-floor loft as I reached that level.
That was new.
The door was open, light spilling into the stairwell along with laughter and the scrape of furniture being coaxed into place. A man with paint on his hands and a woman balancing a box on her hip both looked up when they noticed me hovering.
“Oh—hi,” the woman said easily. “You must be upstairs.”
