Page 64 of Impulse Control
“Don’t perform.”
“Let it be uncomfortable.”
“Again.”
I leaned into what I knew about his cues, but learned new ones so I could anticipate the moments he was waiting for. When a model’s mask slipped. When desire looked like boredom or hunger or distraction instead of something pretty.
My feet ached. My shoulders burned. My eyes felt dry and overused.
I’d never felt more alive.
At one point, he nodded toward me without breaking his rhythm. “You’re seeing faster.”
The compliment gave me a jolt better than caffeine.
By the time we were well past midnight, the shoot had taken on a fevered quality—less polished, more electric. Sweat mixed with perfume. Laughter broke through tension and vanishedagain. Someone adjusted a strap too slowly. Someone else held a gaze a beat too long.
Through it all, René kept pushing us deeper.
“Don’t give me what’s safe,” he said, more than once, like it was his mantra. “Give me what’s true.”
René finally took his second camera back then motioned to where my bag was. “Yours,” he said. “Not mine.”
I blinked. “Settings?”
“You choose.”
That was new.
My fingers hesitated for half a second before muscle memory kicked in. ISO up. Aperture wide. Shutter just fast enough to catch motion without killing the glow. I lifted the camera, recalibrating as the light shifted again when someone opened the courtyard doors.
A model leaned against the stone balustrade, jacket slipping low on one shoulder. It was a good angle. A safe one.
René didn’t shoot.
I did.
He glanced at the back of my camera. “You’re too far back.”
I frowned. “I want the space.”
“The space is empty,” he countered. “The story is here.” He stepped closer to the model, gesturing at the line of her body against the column.
“I disagree,” I said before I could stop myself.
René’s eyebrows lifted just enough to be dangerous. “Then prove it.”
My mouth went dry. I shifted my stance, adjusted my framing, waited as the model inhaled, her chest rising just slightly.
Click.
I took three frames in quick succession, then lowered the camera and turned the screen toward him.
He studied them longer than I expected.
“They’re softer,” he said finally. “But… yes.” A pause. “They breathe.”
Relief rushed through me so fast it made me dizzy. “Again,” he added. “Do not trust luck twice.”
