Chapter 2- Snapshot and Blueprints
1241 Words
Ava
By Monday morning, the chaos of the rooftop shoot had been tamed into neatly labeled folders on Ava’s laptop. She sat cross-legged on her couch, hair tied in a messy bun, an oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. The air smelled faintly of coffee and the cinnamon candle she always burned when she worked.
Her editing software glowed on the screen — sunlight bouncing off champagne glasses, waiters balancing trays, guests leaning in over tiny, perfect plates. She zoomed in, adjusted exposure, cropped. It was a rhythm she knew well, her fingers moving without conscious thought.
But every few minutes, her brain wandered.
Back to the street. Back to the almost-collision. Back to grey eyes and a voice like low thunder.
It was ridiculous. She didn’t even know his name. Yet here she was, replaying the moment like it had been some scene out of a film. In movies, running into someone like that meant fate had plans. In real life, it meant nothing. You forgot about them before you even finished your next coffee.
Except she hadn’t forgotten.
Shaking her head, she dragged another file into the editing queue. She’d promised Miranda the final set by Wednesday, and she needed to focus.
Her phone buzzed beside her. She glanced at the screen — a message from her friend Lila:
> Brunch tomorrow? I’m dying to tell you about the disaster date I had.
Ava grinned and typed back:
> Only if there are mimosas.
She hit send, then reached for her mug of coffee, which had gone lukewarm. She took a sip anyway. Maybe she just needed more human interaction that wasn’t behind a lens. When you spent your life capturing other people’s moments, you sometimes forgot to have your own.
---
Ethan
Across the city, Ethan Vale sat in the conference room of Barton & Vale Architects, trying to listen to a client presentation. The large windows framed a skyline he’d helped shape, but his gaze kept drifting.
“…and we’d like the façade to reflect a sense of luxury, without being ostentatious,” the client was saying, his gold watch catching the light as he gestured.
Ethan nodded automatically, flipping through the packet in front of him. The sketches inside were clean, symmetrical, predictable. Everything about this project screamed safe.
He should have been engaged. He should have been thinking about budget, materials, zoning permits. Instead, his mind wandered to a different kind of design entirely — messy, unplanned, the way that woman had appeared in his path yesterday.
The photographer.
He hadn’t even asked her name.
When she’d walked away, her brown hair swinging over her shoulder, he’d felt a strange tug in his chest. He told himself it was just the randomness of the moment, a brief flicker of curiosity. But it had stayed with him through the rest of the day.
“…Mr. Vale?”
Ethan blinked, realizing the client was looking at him expectantly.
“Of course,” he said smoothly, leaning forward. “We can incorporate a warmer palette on the interior to balance the modern exterior. That should create the atmosphere you’re aiming for.”
The client nodded, satisfied.
When the meeting finally ended, Ethan retreated to his office, a minimalist space with a wide drafting table and shelves lined with architecture books. He dropped his leather-bound sketchbook onto the desk, flipping it open to a half-finished design — a bridge, its arch delicate but strong.
But the page before it caught his eye.
It wasn’t a building at all. It was a sketch he’d done from memory late last night — her face. Just the outline, just enough detail to capture the tilt of her head, the slight curve of her smile.
He stared at it for a long moment, then closed the book. He had no idea why he’d drawn it.
---
Ava
The coffee shop was tucked between a laundromat and a used bookstore, the kind of place Ava loved because it didn’t try too hard. Exposed brick walls, mismatched mugs, indie music humming low in the background. She claimed a corner table, spreading out her laptop, camera, and half a blueberry muffin.
She came here often to work, partly for the coffee, partly for the view — the big front window looked out onto a busy street, perfect for people-watching during editing breaks.
She was adjusting the contrast on a shot of champagne bubbles when someone passed outside the window. She almost didn’t look up. Almost.
But something in the movement caught her attention — tall, steady stride, navy blazer.
Her stomach did a strange flip.
No way.
Before she could think better of it, the man walked into the café.
---
Ethan
He hadn’t planned to come here. He’d been walking to the bookstore next door, looking for a gift for his sister, when the smell of coffee drew him in.
And there she was.
Same brown hair, same sharp, curious eyes — though now they were widened slightly in surprise. She was sitting in the corner, a muffin half-eaten beside her, camera gear spread across the table.
He almost turned around. Almost.
Instead, he walked up to the counter, ordered a black coffee, and then glanced toward her table.
She caught his eye. Smiled.
“Stormy-eyes,” she said as he approached, the corners of her mouth twitching.
He laughed, startled. “I guess that’s me. And you’re…?”
“Ava,” she said, closing her laptop. “Photographer, professional street-dodger. You?”
“Ethan,” he said. “Architect. Apparently terrible at watching where I’m going.”
She gestured to the empty chair across from her. “You can sit, unless you have another stranger to run into.”
He sat. And, somehow, conversation flowed.
---
They talked about their work — Ava describing the rush of catching a perfect candid shot, Ethan explaining the balance between beauty and practicality in design. She teased him about making “fancy boxes for people to live in,” and he countered with questions about whether she ever staged her “spontaneous” photos.
They traded stories about the city — her favorite hidden courtyard café, his go-to rooftop for sunsets.
An hour passed without them noticing.
When Ethan’s phone buzzed with a reminder for his next meeting, he reluctantly stood.
“I should go,” he said. “But… this was nice.”
Ava nodded. “Yeah. It was.”
He reached for his sketchbook to jot something, only to realize it wasn’t in his bag. His chest tightened.
“I think I left my sketchbook somewhere,” he said.
“Was it… leather, dark brown, looked expensive?” Ava asked casually.
His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
She reached under the table and pulled it out. “You left it on the street yesterday. I wasn’t sure how to find you.”
He took it, relief flooding his features. “You looked inside?”
“Only a little,” she admitted, her voice light but her eyes curious. “You’re good. Really good.”
Something flickered in his expression — the same unreadable look she’d seen yesterday.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
He hesitated, then added, “Maybe I could buy you lunch as a thank-you. Tomorrow?”
She considered him for a moment. Then smiled. “Sure. But you’re picking the place, Mr. Architect.”
End of Chapter 2
To be continued
- Writer
