Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
RACHEL
It started as a normal day.
Which, for me lately, meant nothing was actually normal—just a series of small fires I’d gotten good at walking past without stopping.
I woke up before my alarm, stared at the ceiling, and felt that familiar panic-pulse of what did I forget? ripple through my body like it was a reflex instead of a thought.
The apartment was still too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind I’d begun to embrace when I first arrived, but the edgier kind. The kind that echoed with all the things not being said or done.
His sweater was gone from the living room now. I’d folded it and put it away like that made me responsible. Like it would make the ache of missing him smaller.
It didn’t.
His mug was still in my head, though—ghost-weight, phantom heat.
The way he’d held it in both hands sometimes like the warmth was the point.
Sometimes, I cradled that mug and imagined it was his hands over mine.
Those are the days I almost decide to break the damn mug. Maybe I need to put it away too.
I shook myself out of today’s lingering daydream, because I’d found that if I could move fast enough—the feelings had a harder time catching up.
Coffee. Shower. Gear check.
Battery. Cards. Backup cards. Lenses.
My fingers were steady, at least. That was something.
Then my gaze lands on the photos of him taped to the wall. Not all of them are still up there, I’d put my favorite in a frame and it was on the mantle. The only photo in that whole space. Perfect for me to stare at while I’m working on the sofa.
After downing another mouthful of coffee, I made myself move.
I had an hour blocked for Noor at lunch, a call with Frankie somewhere between two meetings, and a shoot in the afternoon that René had assigned me to assist but not with him.
A different photographer. A different tone. A different expectation.
Another chance to prove I wasn’t sloppy.
Another chance to disappear.
I got to set early anyway. Fifteen minutes. Like it was a spell.
The studio was already alive—lights snapping on, stylists moving like they had choreography in their bones, the model perched on a stool while someone dabbed powder along her nose as if her skin were something fragile and expensive.
I found the call sheet near the monitor and scanned it the way I always did: times, names, roles.
And there, again, was hers.
Printed in black ink. Simple. Direct.
A name I could pick up with the same ease I picked up a lens.
I saw it.
Then I looked away.
It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even drama. It was just… control. A small, stubborn corner of my life that I was keeping unclaimed on purpose.
Like if I didn’t name her, she didn’t have to mean anything.
“Hey,” she said behind me.
My body reacted before my brain did—the tiny lift of my pulse, the half-turn, the way my shoulders loosened as if she’d said you can breathe instead of hey.
She was already in wardrobe, hair pulled back this time with that effortless, careless elegance that made it look like she’d never met a brush in her life and still somehow won.
Her outfit was neutral and soft, like the stylists were trying to make her blend in, except she didn’t blend into anything.
She filled the room with her mere presence and I swore the light, no matter the filter, loved her face.
“Hey,” I replied, and hated that my voice warmed.
She smiled, easy. No question in it. No expectation. Like we’d always been on speaking terms.
“Big week?” she asked, tilting her head. “You’ve got very strong I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine energy.”
I snorted quietly and adjusted the strap of my camera like I needed something to do with my hands. “I’m always fine.”
“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.
Not I’m not complaining about work.
Not I’m not complaining about the hours.
Not I’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, took her 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 actually look like 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.
I glanced at her, really looked this time.
Despite the hours on set, her makeup was still effortless, her eyes alert in a way that made her seem more awake than the room itself.
There was a depth there that made me want to linger, like if I stayed still long enough I might understand something about myself.
“You sound like you’re about to tell me I look tired,” I said.
“I could,” she replied — but then one of the stylists stepped in, adjusting her hair, unclipping it so it fell in a dark, soft cascade over one shoulder.
We stayed suspended in that half-second of waiting, neither of us moving.
When the stylist finally stepped away, she shot me a small grin. “Where were we?”
“I think you were about to insult me,” I said dryly.
That earned me a real laugh — the kind that reached her eyes and shifted her whole expression. “Yes, I was. But I decided against it.”
“Generous.”
She tilted her head, considering me. “I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”
“Does anyone enjoy being told they look like they’re running on fumes?”
Her lips pursed into an exaggerated, teasing pout. “Probably not.”
I turned back toward my camera, but she drifted closer, close enough that I felt her before I saw her — the warmth of her, the quiet brush of her against my senses.
Her mouth was near my ear when she said, softly,
“What I want to tell you is that you look like someone who forgot how to laugh.”
I lifted my camera and pretended I needed to check my framing. The truth was, I didn’t trust my face.
The shoot ran long, then suddenly didn’t. Someone cut a look. The client was happy. The photographer said, “That’s a wrap,” with the kind of relief that felt like permission to breathe again.
People started dissolving—coats pulled on, gear packed, makeup wiped away. The set broke down with practiced speed.
I didn’t even see her get changed, but she was just there—dressed in jeans and a Henley with a light jacket. She stretched her arms overhead like a cat, spine arching, joints popping softly. Then she looked at me with that easy smile that never felt like a trap.
“Well,” she said. “We’re done early.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket like it was warning me.
A reminder.
A meeting.
A deadline.
Something that wanted me.
She nodded toward the door. “Drink?” Her voice stayed casual, but her eyes didn’t flick away. “Right now. No rain checks.”
My body said yes before my brain could catch up.
I could already picture it: a bar, low light, a glass sweating on a table, her voice close enough to feel like warmth. The simple pleasure of doing something without squeezing it between obligations.
Then my calendar screamed.
Not literally.
Worse—silently, inside my head.