Page 55 of Impulse Control
A quiet laugh slipped out. “I lingered on the stairs way longer than I meant to and finished the coffee I’d picked up. They’re really, really good. The kind of good that makes me want to tell them to start a YouTube channel and get discovered so they can make a million bucks. You know?”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Apparently, they’re joining us tonight for what Alix has already dubbed the soup-and-bread support group. Very Parisian. Very end-of-day and relaxed. No pressure to be anything other than tired and hungry.”
A pause.
“It’s strange—in a good way. The building feels… full. Everyone here is doing something challenging for them and they’re choosing to do it here—like me.”
I paused, choosing my next words carefully.
“Work is good. Hard, like I said. Really good. I’m learning a lot. I wish you could see some of the places I’ve been shooting—you’d like them.” A beat. “I could send you some, if you want. I know you had court this week, so I didn’t want to blow you up with messages.”
Pausing the message there, I chewed my lower lip. Then just said fuck it. “Anyway. I hope you’re sleeping. I miss you too and I’ll message you later and let you know how the day went.”
I sent it before I could overthink it. Then I set the phone face down and didn’t pick it up again. The truth was, I missed him too damn much. If I let myself linger on that, I might start to regret some of my choices.
Orientation was exactlyas overwhelming as promised. Ilovedit. The Sorbonne buzzed with a particular kind of energy—ambition layered over nerves, talent brushing up against expectation. There were schedules to collect, requirements to initial, studios to locate.
I spotted Mischa Condre across the room immediately—tall, sharp-eyed, already mid-critique with someone who looked like they might cry or ascend, possibly both. My heart fluttered imagining the moment that might be me. Right, the intimidation I’d mentioned in my message to Dominic had come back to haunt me.
Shifting gears, I debated being bold and introducing myself or waiting for our first class. If she was still there when I finishedthe line I was in, I’d head right to her. I caught sight of Alia Gagnon as the crowd shifted.
She wasn’t talking to anyone specifically, if anything she was watching and seemingly taking notes. Our gazes collided briefly, and instead of jerking away like I hadn’t been staring, I lifted my chin in greeting. To my delight, she inclined her head to me then wrote something—hopefully good—down.
I loved them both instantly.
This wasn’t theoretical anymore. This wasn’t a dream deferred until I wasready. I washereand it was happening. I was living in Paris, chasing my dreams at full throttle.
By the time orientation wrapped, my bag was heavier with syllabi and my brain felt pleasantly overloaded. I checked my calendar again, adjusted a few things, and headed straight to a shoot René had texted me about halfway through the closing remarks.
No hesitation.
Thankfully, the metro in Paris meant I could hoof it almost anywhere with little trouble, if I wanted to leave the central part of the city, then I just shifted the transpo. The rain had also slowed to the occasional sprinkle, but the gray of the clouds lingered.
As I arrived, someone else was stepping out. She stepped out of the building just as I reached the door, the muted light where the sun tried to shine through the clouds caught briefly in her hair before the world seemed to rearrange itself around her.
The model.
My beautiful disruption.
She wore jeans this time, a loose sweater, her hair pulled back in a low knot that emphasized the clean lines of her face. No dramatic lighting. No staging. Just her, real and unguarded for once.
She smiled when she saw me—not wide or politely performative. It was a real smile, reflecting the recognition flickering in her eyes before she slid on her sunglasses.
“Busy day?” she asked, that warm Australian accent smoothing the edges of the words.
“Always,” I replied, returning the smile. “You?”
She shrugged lightly. “Just finished.”
There was a beat—unhurried, comfortable. A passing moment that could have stretched into something else if either of us had tried.
Neither of us did.
“Good to see you again,” she said.
“You too.”
And then she was gone, disappearing down the steps with the same quiet confidence she carried everywhere.
