8. A Craving That Starts as a Spark #3
Aniyah smiled before she could stop herself, “Your memories of me never cease to amaze me. My grandpa Earl saved me.”
Trevor’s brows lifted, “I told you I was serious about noticing you back then. How did Grandpa Earl do that? ”
“He threatened to write my father out of the will if he didn’t let me go.”
Trevor let out a loud laugh, the sound filling the truck. “I like him already.”
“Everybody liked Grandpa Earl.” Her voice softened. “By senior year I was living with him full-time. That’s when life finally started to feel… breathable.”
The word sat with her for a moment because that was exactly what it had been. Breath after years of holding it.
“The only things I really had before that were my morning runs and my poetry.”
Trevor looked over at her. “You write poetry?”
She nodded. “That’s how I kept my sanity.”
He was quiet for a second and when she glanced back at him she caught the genuine interest on his face. She hadn’t expected that.
“That’s funny timing,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’m directing a docuseries right now about Black creatives.” He glanced over at her again. “Painters, photographers, sculptors, poets. We are trying to capture the love behind their art and everything that goes into it.”
Aniyah blinked, she decided to play it cool instead of letting it be known that she had googled him and knew about the series. “A docuseries?”
“ Making Love: The Art of Us. ”
She stared at him for a second longer than she meant to. Lord, this man was really out here building things.
“Trevor Porter,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s a huge fucking deal.”
His laugh was quieter this time, but pleased. “I’m glad you think so.”
“I know so. ”
He looked forward again, but the smile stayed on his mouth. “Maybe one day you’ll let me hear some of that poetry.”
Aniyah turned toward him, letting a little mischief slide back into her expression. “Keep being a good date and maybe you will.”
Trevor grinned then, slow and easy, and something inside her gave a dangerous little flutter in response.
Yeah.
This was already feeling like trouble. The kind of trouble that came dressed in a black turtleneck, drove an Aston Martin, and looked at her like he had all the time in the world to figure her out.
“You really have us out in Queens?” Aniyah asked, looking around.
Trevor eased his car into a parking space near the museum and cut the engine.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Aniyah looked across the street, her eyes settling on the large building ahead of them. The modern glass facade reflected the streetlights in soft streaks of gold.
“The Museum of the Moving Image,” she said slowly.
Trevor leaned back slightly in his seat, watching her instead of the building.
“You’ve heard of it.”
Aniyah pushed open her door and stepped out into the winter air. “Of course I’ve heard of it.” She wrapped her coat tighter around herself before glancing back at him. “I’ve just never been.”
Trevor stepped out and rounded the front of the car, the wind lifting the collar of his coat slightly as he joined her on the sidewalk .
“Well,” he said, nodding toward the entrance as they started across the street, “now you have.”
Inside, warmth wrapped around them almost immediately.
The museum carried the quiet reverence of a place where people came to study the things they loved. Soft lighting glowed over glass displays and wide gallery spaces stretched ahead of them. Somewhere deeper inside the building, visitors spoke in low voices that blended into a gentle hum.
Aniyah slowed almost immediately.
The exhibits stretched out in careful rows. Vintage film cameras sat beside editing equipment, costumes, and wall screens looping scenes from decades of cinema.
“This is incredible,” she murmured.
Trevor didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he watched her.
The way her eyes moved across the room, taking everything in, made something in his chest settle quietly into place. She looked entranced and excited.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, nodding toward the first gallery.
They moved through the space slowly, their steps echoing softly against the polished floor.
Trevor stopped beside a vintage film camera encased in glass. The metal body looked heavy, mechanical in a way modern equipment rarely did anymore. The plaque beside it detailed its use in several films from the seventies.
He leaned slightly closer to the case.
“The Arriflex 35BL changed everything for a while,” he said.
Aniyah stepped beside him, folding her arms loosely as she studied the lens. “How so?”
Trevor gestured toward the camera.
“In the 1970s, color film stock was notoriously calibrated for lighter skin tones, using ‘Shirley cards’ making it difficult to capture detail in darker skin tones without intense lighting.” He shook his head slightly.
“A lot of Black actors ended up looking washed out or overly shiny on screen because the equipment just wasn’t built with them in mind. ”
Aniyah leaned a little closer to the glass, looking at the camera again like it held some kind of quiet apology inside it.
“What changed?”
Trevor’s voice warmed as he answered, the shift almost immediate. “People started experimenting. Different film stocks, different lighting setups. They realized if you adjusted the exposure and bounced warmer light, darker skin actually reflected light beautifully.”
He glanced down at her.
“But it required filmmakers who actually cared enough to figure that out.”
Aniyah nodded slowly. “That sounds about right.”
Trevor’s mouth lifted slightly.
They moved to the next exhibit where a row of modern digital cameras lined the wall, each one smaller and sleeker than the last.
Trevor pointed toward one of them.
“You remember when Sinners came out a few years ago?”
Aniyah’s head snapped toward him. “The Ryan Coogler movie?”
“Yeah.” Trevor nodded toward the camera. “He used 65mm Kodak Ektachrome film stock that let him shoot wide format while still preserving the depth of darker skin tones.”
Aniyah stared at the camera like it had suddenly grown more important than the others around it.
“That kind of technical choice changes how people see the entire story,” Trevor continued.
She shook her head softly. “I never thought about it like that.”
Trevor smiled faintly. “Most people don’t. They just feel it when they watch. ”
They continued through the gallery, stopping here and there as Trevor pointed out different pieces of equipment. Editing consoles. Lighting rigs. Early sound recording devices that looked almost prehistoric compared to what filmmakers used now.
As he talked, his hands moved naturally, sketching invisible shapes in the air. His excitement to pull her into his world warmed something in Aniyah.
At first, she paid attention to the exhibits. But somewhere along the way she realized she was mostly watching him.
There was something about the way Trevor spoke about film.
The quiet confidence in his voice had nothing to do with ego.
It came from knowing something deeply. Loving it deeply.
When he talked about lighting or composition his entire posture shifted slightly forward, like someone leaning toward a conversation they’d been waiting to have.
The warmth of it was… magnetic. She could tell he took pride in his craft and that did something for her.
Trevor paused mid-sentence and glanced over.
“What,” he asked looking into her starry eyes.
Aniyah blinked quickly, “Nothing.”
He lifted one brow. “You’ve been staring at me for the last two minutes with your mouth slightly open.”
She shrugged, pretending to study the display again. “I’m admiring your passion for this.”
Trevor huffed out a quiet laugh but Aniyah caught the blooming red gliding across his face, “That’s a new one.”
“Don’t get used to it,” She retorted, walking off to a different direction.
They drifted toward a large wall screen where a montage of iconic film scenes played silently. Light from the screen flickered across the gallery, painting soft shadows across the floor.
Aniyah glanced at him again.
“So this docuseries you mentioned,” she said. “ Making Love: The Art of Us. ”
Trevor nodded, “What about it?”
“You’re really traveling all over filming artists?”
“Yeah.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets. “We’re filming in a few different places. My overseas time is limited though. Two weeks in March and two weeks in April.”
Aniyah looked at him again, disbelief written all over her face.
“Trevor, that’s huge.”
He gave a small shrug, “I’m glad somebody thinks so.”
She nudged his arm lightly, “Don’t do that. I won’t let you down talk your success in front of me. You know it is.”
They continued walking through the exhibit together, the quiet warmth of the museum settling around them like a soft blanket.
Somewhere between the glow of the displays and the steady rhythm of Trevor’s voice explaining the art he loved, Aniyah realized something she hadn’t expected when the evening began.
She was enjoying herself.
More than enjoying herself. She was starting to understand why people fell for Trevor Porter in the first place.
That realization felt just a little bit dangerous.
When they stepped out of the museum, the sky had begun its slow surrender to evening.
The winter sun hung low, stretching long shadows across the sidewalks as they walked back toward the car.
The temperature had dropped while they were inside, the kind of cold that crept under coats and curled around your ankles if you stood still too long.
Aniyah slid her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat as Trevor unlocked the car.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going next,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat .
Trevor started the engine, the heater rumbling gently to life, “You ask a lot of questions.”
Aniyah settled into the warmth of the seat and smirked, “I’m a teacher.”
“That is no excuse outside of school hours.”