The first time Kade saw her, she was a mirage of sun and sin, leaning against the edge of time itself.
She was wearing red.
Not the kind of red that begged for attention, but the kind that whispered danger—the shade of warning signs no one ever truly heeds. A plaid skirt that barely skimmed her thighs, a white tank that clung to her like an afterthought, boots that hinted at mischief. And those sunglasses, barely concealing the fire beneath.
She knew exactly how she looked.
Kade had been hunting all afternoon, his camera strap digging into his palm, searching for a face worth immortalizing. The city was full of beauty, but beauty wasn’t enough. He needed something… untamed.
And then, there she was.
Click.
Her head turned.
Their eyes met.
Even behind her tinted lenses, he could feel her gaze burn through him. A challenge. A dare. A game with rules she hadn’t bothered to explain.
Kade’s gut clenched.
She had seen him. Not just his camera. Him.
And just like that, she was gone.
The Girl Who Left No Shadows
That night, the photo haunted him.
The light bounced perfectly off her skin, the curve of her lips, the way the breeze lifted the strands of her hair as if it, too, was tempted to touch her. But there was something else, something beneath the surface.
He searched for her online. Nothing.
He asked around. No one knew her.
She was a ghost in red plaid, a smirk frozen in pixels.
Then came the note.
A plain white envelope slipped beneath his door.
Inside, a single sentence.
“You don’t just take pictures, do you?”
His hands tightened around the letter.
How?
A trick of fate, or something far darker?
Midnight & Mirrors
The address came the next day, scrawled in delicate handwriting.
An old warehouse, forgotten by the city, its bones draped in shadows.
He shouldn’t have gone.
But of course, he did.
Inside, golden light flickered like fire against red silk draped along the walls. And there she was, perched on an old wooden table, one leg crossed over the other, swirling a glass of something dark and intoxicating.
No sunglasses this time.
Just those eyes—sharp, unreadable, watching him like a predator with all the time in the world.
Kade stepped closer. “Who are you?”
She smiled, slow, deliberate. “Depends on who’s asking.”
His fingers curled around the camera, but he didn’t lift it.
She noticed. “You’re hesitating.”
“You’re not real,” he murmured.
She laughed. A sound that curled like smoke. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
She slipped off the table, stepping toward him. The scent of vanilla and something darker filled the space between them.
Her fingers ghosted over his lens, tracing the edge, daring him.
“You collect moments,” she whispered. “But do you ever live them?”
Kade swallowed. “I live through the frame.”
Her lips parted, amused. “What a sad little prison.”
Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, lifting the camera. Click.
Not him capturing her.
Her capturing him.
His breath hitched.
“I don’t just take pictures,” he admitted. “I find stories.”
Her gaze burned into him. “Then let me give you one.”
The Last Shot
That night, the photos were different.
There were no stolen moments, no distance between lens and subject.
There was only fire and silk, whispers against bare skin, a woman who never truly existed outside the glow of the camera.
And when he woke, the pictures were gone.
So was she.
Only one remained—tucked inside his camera, though he swore he never took it.
A single frame of her walking away.
Her lips curled in a knowing smile.
A signature in light and shadow.
Proof that she had been real.
Or maybe just a dream.
