Chapter 9 - Jealous?

Ivy's POV

By eleven in the morning, I’ve decided there are three things I hate about photography assignments. The first is being told to capture something natural while knowing half the university suddenly starts behaving like they’re auditioning for a catalogue the second they notice a camera. The second is Seattle rain, which apparently has a personal issue with expensive equipment. And the third is Professor Hale standing at the front of the room telling twenty-three students that today’s task is simple when I already know it absolutely fucking isn’t.

We have two hours to walk around Blackthorne and capture five photographs showing real campus life. No posing. No staging. No asking somebody to repeat whatever they were doing because we missed the shot. He wants movement, expression, interaction and something that feels honest. I love photography. I genuinely do. But apparently loving something doesn’t stop you wanting to throw the assignment sheet out of a window and telling your professor to go screw himself. It's not allowed apparently.

“Think of it as observation,” Professor Hale says, leaning against his desk.

“People change the moment they know they’re being watched. Your job is to catch the second before that happens.”

That part gets my attention.

Dad taught me something similar years ago. He always said the best photographs happen before somebody remembers what their face is supposed to look like. It’s one of the reasons I prefer taking pictures of people who aren’t expecting it. Give someone a camera and they’ll smile. Turn your lens on them when they’re distracted and suddenly you get the real thing. Nervous fingers. A genuine laugh. The irritation they’re trying to hide. The look between two people that means more than whatever they’re saying. I sling my camera strap over my neck, grab my bag and head outside before anyone can suggest pairing up. I need the quiet today. Preferably several hours of it. My morning yesterday had already involved Roman fucking Blackwood invading my space, interrogating Ethan and informing me that I’m apparently obsessed with him. I’d like the rest of my day to contain exactly zero Romans.

Naturally, the universe hears that request and probably starts laughing.

The rain has stopped, leaving Blackthorne damp, cold and irritatingly photogenic. Students crowd the main courtyard between classes, jackets pulled tighter against the wind while water drips from the stone arches and dark branches overhead. I spend the first thirty minutes photographing anything that catches my attention. Two girls arguing beneath one umbrella. A guy running across the courtyard while holding three coffee cups and somehow managing not to spill any of them. A professor crouching to help a student collect papers the wind has thrown everywhere. An older groundskeeper laughing while a Labrador tries to drag him towards a puddle. By the time I reach the central quad, I’ve almost forgotten why I was angry yesterday morning. That’s what cameras do for me. They narrow everything down.

One frame. One moment. One thing to concentrate on instead of the hundred others screaming inside my head.

I spot the photograph before I take it.

A couple stands near the steps outside the humanities building. At least, I assume they’re a couple by the way the girl keeps leaning into him every time she laughs. He’s holding an umbrella too small for both of them, which means half his shoulder is soaked while she remains completely dry.

She says something. He rolls his eyes. Then she grabs the front of his jacket and laughs harder. Perfect. I lift my camera before either of them notices me, adjust the focus and wait. Timing matters. Too soon and it looks posed. Too late and the moment disappears. She tips her head back. His expression changes into something softer. I press the shutter three times, lower the camera and move away before they catch me. Easy. Natural. Exactly what Hale asked for. I’m already mentally adding it to the five photographs I’ll submit when I check the screen to make sure I have the right angle and shot when I spot it.

In the far corner of the lens, I see him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I mumble, hoping I can edit it out.

Roman is standing in the background.

Not beside them. Not even particularly close. He’s twenty or thirty feet behind the couple beneath one of the huge stone archways cutting through Blackthorne’s oldest building. Dressed entirely in black because apparently colour personally hated him at birth. His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets. Broad shoulders almost filling the arch behind him. The couple in front are laughing, completely unaware that Roman has managed to turn himself into the most distracting part of my photograph without even trying. Worse, he isn’t talking to anyone. He isn’t looking at his phone. He isn’t walking. He’s just standing there with that permanently pissed-off expression on his face. I stare at the screen. Something about the contrast is actually annoyingly good. Happiness in the foreground. Roman looking like somebody told him joy was mandatory behind them. I zoom in once.

Then again.

Purely for Academic reasons.

Obviously.

The couple disappears from view until Roman fills most of the screen. His face is sharper now. Dark hair pushed back carelessly. Jaw tight. Brows slightly lowered. There’s no smile, no boredom and none of the smug amusement he usually wears when he’s deliberately trying to piss me off. He looks angry. Not loud anger. Roman never really needs to be loud. This is worse. It's controlled. It's cold. The kind of expression that makes people move before he ever has to tell them to. My fingers tighten around the camera as I study it. Then my stomach does something stupid when I realise he isn’t staring vaguely across the courtyard. He’s looking directly into the lens. Directly at me. I lower the camera quickly and glance towards the archway.

Empty.

He’s gone.

Good.

Fantastic.

Exactly what I wanted.

So why do I suddenly feel like I’ve just been caught doing something wrong?

“Talking to yourself again, princess?”

I nearly throw my fucking camera.

Roman’s voice comes from directly behind my shoulder, low enough that the hairs on the back of my neck lift before I even turn. My body reacts before my attitude gets the chance to. My pulse jumps. My grip tightens around the camera. Every muscle across my shoulders goes rigid. I hate that response almost as much as I hate him noticing things. Roman doesn’t scare me in the obvious way. I don’t think he’s going to hit me. I don’t think he’s going to drag me into a dark room and murder me because I insulted him. It’s something else. When he gets close, the rest of the world seems to pull further away. Voices get quieter. Space gets smaller. He’s too tall, too broad, too fucking intense, and suddenly every exit feels like it belongs to him. Outwardly, though? He gets absolutely none of that information.

I turn and glare at him.

“Do you sneak up on everyone, or am I getting special treatment?”

“Just you.”

“How unfortunate for me.”

His eyes drop to the camera.

“You were photographing me.”

“I was absolutely not.”

“You zoomed in on the photo. I watched you.”

Fuck.

“I was checking the quality.”

“Of my face?”

“Unfortunately.”

One dark eyebrow rises.

“You seem to use that word a lot around me.”

“It keeps applying.”

“Show me.”

“No.”

His expression changes slightly when he says “Why?” and I feel the slight ounce of fear deep inside me that I refuse to show in front of him. My anxiety will spike for this and I feel like nothing will settle it. My tablets haven't worked and I feel on edge today.

“Because it’s my camera.”

“And it's my face you photographed.”

“You contaminated my photograph. There’s a difference.”

“Contaminated?”

“You were lurking in the background.”

“I was standing.”

“Menacingly.”

“I didn’t realise standing had a tone.”

“With you, everything has a tone.”

Roman reaches towards the camera, and I instinctively pull it against my chest before he can touch it. His hand stops in the air, and from the outside view, it would look like he is about to hit me but I know he won't. He's a prick but not a woman beater.

For half a second we both stare at each other, neither moving. Then he takes one step forward. I take one backwards. Stupid. I know it immediately because something shifts behind me and my shoulder blades meet cold stone. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. He notices this too. His gaze flicks past my shoulder before returning to my face. The camera is trapped between us against my chest, and suddenly that familiar pressure starts crawling beneath my skin again. The courtyard is still behind him. Students are still talking. Someone laughs somewhere to my left. But all I see is Roman. His shoulders blocking most of my view. His face too close. His attention completely fixed on me. I straighten my spine because I’d rather swallow the camera whole than let him know my heart is hammering.

“Move.”

Roman’s eyes narrow.

“Ivy—”

“Move.”

It comes out quieter than I wanted.

That pisses me off more than anything.

For one second, he doesn’t react.

Then he steps back.

Immediately.

No smirk.

No smart comment.

No 'make me'

He just moves.

The sudden space between us almost catches me off guard more than him crowding me did. I push away from the wall and adjust the camera strap, pretending my hands aren’t slightly unsteady.

“Happy?”

“No.” I say as I rush away from him, feeling more on edge now. Why can't he just leave me alone?

“Shocking. I want to see the picture.”

“I’ve already told you no.”

“And I’ve already told you—”

“That people normally do what you say. I remember. You bring it up every five minutes.”

His jaw shifts.

“Show me the photograph, Ivy.”

There’s something different in his voice now. Still firm. Still Roman. But the edge is gone.

I hate that I notice.

“One picture.”

I turn the screen towards him.

Roman steps beside me this time instead of in front. Close, but not blocking anything. I notice that too, which is irritating because apparently my brain has decided today’s secondary assignment is studying Roman’s every movement and smell. He looks down at the photograph. The teasing expression disappears almost instantly. The couple fills most of the frame, still caught mid-laugh, but Roman stands behind them beneath the archway like he belongs to an entirely different photograph. Light and shadow. Warmth and coldness. Everybody else living while he watches from the outside. It’s easily the strongest picture I’ve taken today, and I don’t know whether I like that or not. Roman doesn’t say anything. His face closes off the longer he looks at it. I glance from the screen to him.

“Well?”

“Delete it.”

I look at him.

“What?”

“Delete it.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“Ivy.”

His tone stops me.

Not threatening per see but the tone makes me pause.

For once, I don’t argue.

I press the button and delete the image.

“You deleted it.”

“You asked me to.”

“I tell you to do things constantly.”

“Yes, but usually you’re being an asshole.”

Something moves across his face so quickly I almost miss it.

Maybe surprise.

“Fair.”

I blink.

“Did Roman Blackwood just admit I was right?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Oh, I’m remembering this forever.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why? Planning to have me eliminated?”

“Considering it. Your death would one less problem for me.”

“There he is.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

I glance down at the camera and start scrolling back through the photographs, mostly because standing beside him in silence feels strangely more dangerous than fighting with him. Then I stop.

There’s another one and of course he notices these photos as well.

“You missed one.”

I look at him.

“What?”

“You took three.”

My stomach drops.

“You counted?”

“I notice things.”

“Apparently.”

The next image is slightly blurred, caught between the couple moving and me adjusting focus. Roman is barely visible. I delete it. Then I scroll once more.

And stop.

The third photograph is different.

The couple have moved partly out of frame. Roman is clearer. His entire body is angled towards me now, hands still in his pockets, head slightly lowered. But it’s his eyes that catch me. He isn’t looking at the camera the way someone looks when they notice they’re being photographed. He’s looking at me. Directly. Completely. Like everything between us has disappeared and I’m the only thing left in the frame. My mouth goes dry.

Roman reaches towards the screen.

“Delete it.”

This time I don’t hesitate.

Click.

Gone.

“There.”

He watches me for another second.

“Good.”

“Try not to ruin any more of my assignments.” I tell him while also considering bringing the photos back because they are good fucking photos!

“No promises.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you keep photographing me.”

“By accident.”

“Three times.”

“Go away.”

His mouth finally curves. “Careful, princess.”

“With what?”

“You’re starting to sound comfortable with me.”

I flip him off.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

The sound follows me halfway across the courtyard.

Back in class, Professor Hale gives us twenty minutes to sort through our images before choosing the five we want to edit. I should be concentrating. I have plenty to work with. The couple beneath the umbrella. The girls arguing. The guy carrying three coffees. The groundskeeper and the dog. Normal photographs. Good photographs. Yet every few minutes, my thumb moves towards the spot where Roman’s pictures had been before I remember they’re gone. I deleted them. All three. Exactly like he asked. That shouldn’t bother me. If anything, I should be relieved. One less reason to look at his face. One less piece of him sitting inside something that belongs to me. Instead, I keep remembering the final photograph. The way he stood completely still while everyone else moved around him. The way he looked directly at me.

Not the camera.

Me.

I close the folder and shove the memory away because if I do bring those photos back, they won't achieve anything but winding him up and quite possible be the start of my slow and painful death.

The photographs aren’t the problem.

The fact I wanted to keep one is.