Clara
Julian’s camera shutter clicked one last time as I adjusted the strap of my dress.
The engagement shoot had run long. Golden hour was gone. Evan had already left for a work call, kissing my cheek and telling Julian to “get whatever else you need.” I’d stayed because the photographer said the light on the back terrace was still good. Now the terrace was empty except for the two of us, and the dress I’d chosen—thin, pale, easy to move in—had slipped off one shoulder while I fixed my hair.
Julian lowered the camera. He was older than Evan by a decade, quiet during the shoot, professional. Now he just looked at me.
“Got some you won’t want him to see,” he said. His voice was low. Calm. “You bending over to fix your heel. The strap falling. The way you looked at me when you thought I
