Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
RACHEL
Ididn’t remember agreeing on how long Dominic was staying. Which meant, technically, we hadn’t agreed on anything at all. He was here and he was staying and—I didn’t complain. Not once.
The weekend unfolded like light I hadn’t accounted for—a candid I didn’t know I’d needed, slanting into my life at an angle I couldn’t control, only follow.
No alarms. No countdown. No return tickets mentioned out loud.
He worked from my kitchen table in the mornings while I rushed in and out between shoots and edits.
He learned the rhythm of the building faster than I expected — learned which door stuck, which neighbor always forgot their keys, which café made coffee strong enough to feel like a moral support system.
At some point, without thinking about it, I started photographing him.
Not for work. Not for anything. Just… because he was there.
The way he frowned at his laptop like it had personally betrayed him. The way he tucked one foot under the chair when he 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.
Just Dominic, 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 through high 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 disappoint him.
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.
I just pretended I was fine.
Dominic noticed, of course. He always noticed.
“You’re blinking like a malfunctioning robot,” he said one morning as I poured my third coffee.
I stared straight ahead and went monotone. “Reboot in progress. Please do not attempt emotional diagnostics. Human functions temporarily offline.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and leaned in to kiss my temple, lingering there a second longer than necessary. “I’m not running diagnostics,” he murmured. “I’m just… monitoring for signs of imminent system failure.”
I shot him a look. “Wow.” A beat. “Rude.”
“Affectionate,” he corrected softly, already reaching for me again. He pressed a croissant into my hand like it was a peace offering. “Eat. This unit is critically under-fueled.”
I took it. I even meant to eat it.
Then forgot about it until an hour later, when it was cold and I was already late again.
My calendar continued to look like a mosaic of overlapping obligations. Colors bleeding into each other. Green and blue, for class and shoots, dominated the view. Yellow had presence, But the purple? I snorted.
The purple was so barely there, I didn’t think it qualified even as a suggestion anymore
I kept telling myself it was temporary.
Just this week. Just this project. Just until things settled.
Things never settled.
They just accumulated.
The nameless girl texted me on Thursday.
Two days before Dominic was leaving.
Unknown Number:
Still owe me that drink, you know.
I stared at the message longer than I meant to.
The timing was terrible. Or perfect. I wasn’t sure which anymore.
We were in the back of a cab, rain streaking down the windows like the city was dissolving into light.
Dominic was half-asleep beside me, head tipped against the glass, jacket slung over my shoulders even though I hadn’t asked for it.
His fingers were still loosely intertwined with mine, warm and familiar and real.
We’d just left a nightclub he’d found, sweaty and laughing and slightly drunk on each other. Music still thrummed faintly in my ears, my body pleasantly loose in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine or adrenaline.
We’d missed soup night for the first time on purpose. Invited the others. They’d waved us off and told us to go have fun.
We had.
And the strangest part was—I hadn’t even brought my camera.
Not as a joke. Not because I’d forgotten. I’d just… chosen not to. Chosen to leave it behind like it wasn’t part of my spine. Like I didn’t need to document the night to justify it.
I’d played hooky.
And I’d enjoyed it.
My phone buzzed again before I could answer.
Unknown Number:
Or we can keep collecting rain checks. I don’t mind. Kind of like the mystery.
I smiled despite myself.
Which felt like a small betrayal.
Not of Dominic — not exactly. He was half-asleep beside me, warm and real and here. I hadn’t lied to him. I hadn’t touched anyone else. Was I attracted? Sure. But it was more curiosity right now. Curiosity and interest.
The fact I wanted to add one more item to my to do list though seemed the bigger problem. It was like I was distracted from the idea of who I wanted to be.
The clock was already ticking. Dominic would leave soon.
He was warm beside me, one arm heavy across my ribs, his thumb brushing lazy circles into my hip like he was still half aware of me even in sleep. His breath ghosted against the back of my neck, steady and familiar, and I let myself sink into it for just a second longer than I should have.
My schedule would close back in around me.
And I was running out of places to hide the parts of myself that wanted different things at the same time.
That was the problem.
Not that I wanted to see her.
Not that I loved him.
Not that I wanted my work and my city and my future.
It was that I wanted all of it.
And I still didn’t know how to choose without losing something.
There were too many versions of my life happening at once.
The woman Dominic woke up next to, hair tangled in his fingers, his mouth finding the same places on my skin every morning like muscle memory.
The intern René expected to be flawless.
The student Mischa wanted to see take risks.
The photographer who still hadn’t decided what she wanted to be known for.
The girl who didn’t even know the name of the person flirting with her.
All of them felt real.
All of them felt urgent.
All of them wanted more than I could give.
I typed back something safe.
Me:
One day. I promise.
I didn’t specify when. I couldn’t. There was no room for purple right now. The next few weeks didn’t look good either.