My gaze betrayed me with one quick, stupid dip—because my brain had apparently decided to torture me—catching the line of his sweatpants before I yanked my attention away.
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he’d clocked the movement even if he didn’t know why.
Both of us looked away too fast.
I turned toward the counter and grabbed a paper towel, wiping the already-clean surface because my hands needed a job. My heart hammered like I’d done something worse than exist in pajamas.
Behind me, Wes poured himself a mug without a word. A beat passed where it felt like he might say something—anything—and then he didn’t.
He left the kitchen like it was hostile territory and disappeared toward the living room.
The quiet that followed was somehow louder than the quiet before.
I stared at the fridge again—at my loud, obnoxious list and his controlled, cutting add-ons—feeling that ridiculous, reluctant spark of amusement flicker again.
Proof of life, whether he wanted it to be or not.
Back upstairs I busied myself by getting ready for the day.
I took another sip of coffee and tried not to wonder why he kept choosing that couch—why he kept choosing discomfort—over the bed he should have been sleeping in.
I didn’t want to wonder what he was afraid of up there ... or what he thought would happen if he let anyone see him live like a person again.
Instead, I chose to get lost in my work.
My coffee wentcold on the bedside table an hour ago, but I kept sipping it anyway. In my room, the house felt far away and too close at the same time. The upstairs remained quiet in that loaded way it had been all morning, and I could still hear Wes moving downstairs if I listened hard enough—the soft creak of the couch, the muted clink of a mug, the occasional thud like he was setting something down with more force than necessary.
We hadn’t spoken since the kitchen. If you could even call that speaking.
In reality it was two robots, one awkward note on the fridge, and a whole lot of pretending our living situation wasn’t completely messed up.
I sat cross-legged on the bed with my laptop open, phone in hand, and made myself do the only thing that ever steadied me when my life felt like it was slipping out from under my feet.
Work.
I’d spent the morning reaching out to designers whom I’d worked with in the past, a couple of photographers who actually delivered on what they promised, and one florist who understood that “winter bridal” did not mean sad white roses and baby’s breath.
My Sent folder was a graveyard of carefully worded professionalism.
Outside the snow fell in fat flakes that almost looked fake. I smiled to myself and let the image of a winter bridal shootconsume me. Using Wes’s secluded backyard as inspiration, I wrote down my ideas, saved images to mood boards, and considered price ranges.
Every message I sent felt like tossing a little line into the dark and waiting for something to tug back.
It didn’t take long for my producer brain to snap online, and I found my groove. Timelines, a photo shot list, deliverables, pricing—things you could measure and control.
Things that didn’t involve standing in a hallway trying not to picture Wes Vaughn naked.
I opened a blank doc and started listing what I needed like it was survival:
Location: accessible, visually striking, winter friendly
Wardrobe: 3–5 gowns, 2 “styled looks,” 1 statement veil