Page 71 of Ghosted

I should be thinking about composition. Contrast. Movement. The cage cutting through the frame. All the very serious academic reasons I came down here in the first place.

Instead, I look at his hands and remember them on my hips. I look at his mouth and remember it against my skin. I look at the blood on his lip and remember his tongue dragging over the cut he left under my shirt.

My stomach flips.

Traitor.

The next image settles into focus, and there are his eyes again. Locked on the camera like he already knew I’d be stupid enough to keep looking.

That’s the problem.

Jagger Cutter is dangerous. Obviously. I have eyes, a functioning brain, and at least three survival instincts buried somewhere under the eyeliner and poor impulse control.

But he makes dangerous feel personal.

Like he isn’t just violent. He’s violent and paying attention. Violent and choosing me. Violent in a way that makes my brain go, Okay, this seems unhealthy, but maybe we hear him out for five more minutes.

Which is exactly the kind of thought that gets girls killed in movies.

I lift the next print with the tongs and let out a quiet laugh, because apparently this is who I am now. Self-aware enough to know better, still stupid enough to keep developing photos of the problem.

“Excellent work, Alice,” I mutter. “Truly groundbreaking survival skills.”

The darkroom stays quiet.

Rude, but fair.

I clip the last warehouse print to the line and step back.

Jagger fills the darkroom from every angle.

In the cage. Against the fence. Blood on his mouth. Eyes locked on my camera like he already knew I’d keep looking.

I laugh under my breath, because apparently this is who I am now. Self-aware enough to know Jagger Cutter is dangerous, stupid enough to stand here surrounded by proof that I still can’t get him out of my head.

The worst part is how personal he makes it feel.

Violence should be easy to hate. It should be simple. Loud man. Bad choices. Run away. Done.

Except Jagger looks at me like he means it. Like all that ugly focus has picked a direction, and unfortunately, the direction is me.

Which is exactly the kind of thought that gets girls killed in movies.

“Excellent,” I mutter, staring at the photos. “Love being aware of the red flag and still walking toward it.”

Something shifts near the doorway.

I turn fast.

Johnny Cutter leans against the frame like he’s been there long enough to enjoy the show.

My stomach drops, but I keep my face still.

His smile says he noticed anyway.

“Darkroom really suits you,” he says.

I grab the tongs off the counter before I can think better of it, which is unfortunate, because Johnny looks at them, then at me, then grins like I’ve just handed him the funniest possible version of this moment.