Hungry for you

Chapter Three – I Can’t Stop Noticing Him

The morning sun spills through the blinds in sharp, golden lines, slicing the apartment into pieces. I squint against the light, my head heavy but my chest buzzing with a restless energy that coffee can’t explain. I didn’t sleep much, but it doesn’t feel like exhaustion humming in my body. It feels like something else. Something I shouldn’t name.

I make coffee anyway. The steam curls up, soft and steady, but the silence around me is deafening. No message from Eli. Not even a recycled good morning. I glance at my phone again, though I already know the screen is blank.

And still… I’m waiting.

Not for him.

For Ian.

The thought makes guilt coil in my stomach, sharp and hot. But it doesn’t fade. The truth is cruel in its simplicity: I’m not expecting Eli anymore. I’m craving Ian.

I tell myself to shake it off, to busy my hands, but by mid-afternoon, the walls are too tight, the silence too sharp. I tug on a sweater, grab my bag, and step outside. I tell myself I’m running errands. That’s a lie. I just need air.

The city is restless in its own way. Horns in the distance, the yeasty smell from the bakery down the block, the chatter of strangers brushing past. Everything feels alive, loud, chaotic. And then, out of the noise, I see him.

Ian.

He’s crouched near the bookstore on Main, his camera strap slung across his neck, body angled toward a row of bicycles chained to a rail. The late afternoon light fractures against the metal, golden and sharp, and he’s chasing it like it’s something rare. His focus is absolute, eyes narrowed, movements patient and deliberate.

I freeze. Watching him feels like stumbling across something private, something sacred. He doesn’t just take pictures—he belongs to them. He moves like he’s part of the rhythm of the world, while I’m still struggling to keep up.

Then he looks up. And he sees me.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, his voice warm, steady, almost amused.

My chest stutters. “You’re everywhere lately.”

“Or maybe you’re just finally noticing,” he replies, lowering the camera.

The way he says it—it’s not smug, not teasing. Just certain. Like the truth isn’t something he needs to prove.

We fall into step together, his presence easing the weight pressing down on my chest. Conversation starts light. Books I’ll never finish. The weather. The bakery I passed earlier that he swears makes the best cinnamon rolls in the city. It should feel ordinary, but beneath every word is a current that makes my skin prickle.

At the café, he holds the door for me. His hand brushes the small of my back—an accidental touch, maybe. But my body notices anyway. My body always notices him.

Inside, the air hums with quiet chatter, the clink of cups, the low hiss of the espresso machine. We sit across from each other, his camera bag at his feet, my hands wrapped around a mug for warmth. He orders his coffee black; mine is sweet, too sweet, as always.

“You ever get tired of being behind the lens?” I ask. My eyes flick to the camera resting by his chair.

“Never,” he says without hesitation. His voice is calm, steady. “It’s how I make sense of things. When I write, when I shoot—it slows the world down. Makes it clearer.”

I tilt my head. “So what do you see when you look at people?”

His eyes lift to mine. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Depends on the person.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I look away too fast, sip coffee I barely taste. His attention is too much—it makes me feel raw, unsteady, like every wall I’ve built is one touch from collapsing.

With Eli, I used to crave that kind of focus. With Ian, it terrifies me. And yet I lean into it anyway.

The conversation drifts. Music. Places we’ve been. Books we’ve half-read. I laugh more than I mean to. Not the polite, empty laugh I’ve been giving Eli over the phone for months, but real laughter, the kind that scrapes something open inside me. The sound feels strange, almost foreign, like it belongs to someone freer, lighter.

But Ian notices. He always notices.

At one point, he leans closer, his arm brushing mine against the table. The touch is small, almost accidental, but it sends waves through me. My breath stumbles. My hand trembles around the mug.

And he sees it. His mouth curves—not smug, not playful. Just soft. Knowing.

I can’t take it. I need to breathe, to pull back. “I should go soon,” I murmur, though my body protests.

Before he can answer, the café door swings open. The bell jingles. And in walks Nate.

Of course.

He spots me instantly. His smile widens. Too wide. Too familiar. “Reese.” His voice carries across the room, warm but sharp underneath. He strides over, slides into the seat beside me like he belongs there. His shoulder brushes mine. His presence fills the air like smoke.

My chest tightens.

Ian’s gaze darkens, steady, unreadable. He doesn’t move, but his jaw tenses, his pen stops mid-scratch in the notebook he’d been filling.

“Morning,” Ian says, his tone calm but clipped.

“Morning,” Nate replies, grinning too easily. “Didn’t know you came here too.”

“I come when I need quiet,” Ian answers, closing his notebook a fraction.

The air shifts, sharp with invisible lines.

Nate leans closer to me, his breath grazing my hair. “It’s been a while,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed this.”

My pulse stumbles. I don’t know what to say. Ian’s eyes flick down to where Nate’s arm rests too close to mine. His jaw tightens again.

Nate doesn’t stop. His smile sharpens. “So, Ian. Still chasing the next photo? The next story?”

Ian doesn’t flinch. His voice is even, steady. “No. I wait until something worth remembering shows itself.”

When he says it, his gaze cuts to me.

My breath catches. Heat blooms across my skin.

Nate notices. His jaw hardens, but his smile doesn’t slip. He presses on, leaning even closer, his hand brushing mine deliberately this time. The touch isn’t accidental. It’s claiming.

“You know what he’s like, right?” Nate whispers, too low for anyone but me to hear. “He doesn’t stay. He doesn’t commit. Don’t let him make you believe otherwise.”

The words pierce. My chest squeezes. And yet my body betrays me. Instead of pulling away, I think of Ian’s eyes locking on mine at the bookstore. The brush of his scarf over my shoulders. The warmth of his voice in the dark.

“Reese,” Nate says, softer now. “I’ve known you for years. I’ve seen you hurt. I won’t watch it happen again. He doesn’t deserve you.”

The door swings open again. The cold air rushes in. Ian steps back from the counter where he’d gone for a refill. His eyes lock instantly on our joined hands.

My heart leaps. I pull away too fast. Too obvious.

Silence slams down.

Nate leans back, satisfied, his grin sharp as a blade. Ian doesn’t move, but the restraint in his posture is tight as wire. His eyes burn, but his voice stays even when he speaks. “You trust him?”

The question slices me open.

I want to answer. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to say anything that will make sense of the storm inside me. But nothing comes.

“I don’t know who to trust,” I whisper.

The air hums with the weight of it.

Ian leans forward, the scent of cedar and coffee wrapping around me, his eyes sharp enough to pin me in place. His voice is low, raw. “You’re not the only one losing sleep over this.”

The honesty in his tone shatters me. And in that moment, sitting between Nate’s warnings and Ian’s certainty, all I want is him.

So much it terrifies me.