behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Forty-Two

HARPER

The light is unreal.

It's the kind of sky that only happens after rain—the clouds still hanging heavy in the distance, but the sun's found a way to break through behind them, painting everything in this soft, impossible purple. The kind of light that makes the world feel cracked open and raw in the best way. Like it's saying, Here, look. Really look.

I do.

I sit on the ledge of Millie's living room window, knees tucked under me, camera in hand, the glass fogging up slightly from the warmth inside. Outside, the city glows wet and alive. Rainwater reflects the lavender sky in puddles on the sidewalk, and the buildings across the street are slick and dark like watercolor paper that hasn't fully dried. Someone walks past with a red umbrella and I click the shutter, the sound quiet and satisfying in the hush of the apartment.

Another shot: a kid splashing in a puddle while his mom waits with a resigned smile. Another: the glint of taillights curving through the intersection like a ribbon. And then I turn the lens slightly to the right, to capture the way the droplets race down the glass.

I don't know why it makes me feel closer to her—my mom—but it does.

Maybe because she always told me the best light came after rain. That cameras weren't just for preserving memories, but for noticing them while they were happening. That you didn't need a perfect subject. Just something honest. Something that made you feel.

I hear the faint rustle of her towel, the scrape of a drawer opening, the muted sigh she always lets out after practice—like the weight of the day hasn't quite let her go yet.
She's so close I can feel the warmth of her presence before I see her.

And then, slowly, I turn. Camera still in hand.

Millie's standing near the window now, her damp hair curling gently over her shoulders, wearing nothing but that towel and a raised brow. She catches me watching her and smirks. "Are you aiming that thing at me, Harper Lane?"

I lift the camera to my face, look through the viewfinder, and adjust the focus until she sharpens—bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, that little dimple in her left one from her smirk. "Maybe."

She rolls her eyes, but her voice is warm. "Creeping on me in my own apartment? Is this what we've come to?"

I lower the camera and grin. "You're kind of a perfect subject."

"Oh, am I?" She crosses her arms, which only makes the towel dip slightly lower and—god. She knows what she's doing. "I thought you said you liked capturing honest moments, not thirst traps."

"I'm multitasking," I say, deadpan, and that makes her laugh, soft and low.

Then she walks toward me, bare feet silent on the floor. I keep the camera up, not snapping photos, just watching her through the lens. Framing her. Seeing her.

"You should probably stop doing that," she murmurs, voice quieter now as she steps closer.

"Why?"

"Because I know exactly what that look means."

"What look?"

She smiles again, this time slower, softer. "The one that says you're not thinking about photography anymore."

She's right.

Because I'm not. Not really. I'm thinking about how close she is, and how I can still feel the humidity from her shower clinging to her skin, and how she's looking at me like I'm something worth pausing for too.