We ate breakfast at the little place down the hill—the one wedged between a canyon road and a row of hedges that pretended to be privacy. You couldn’t see the house from the street, but you could feel it from there: elevation, money that didn’t need to announce itself, a view that only existed because someone had decided not to block it.
Jeff lived where the road started to curve for no reason. Where the city loosened its grip and the houses stopped lining up like teeth. His place was all glass and quiet angles, tucked into the hillside like it had learned how to stay out of the way. From his kitchen, you could see the city flatten into distance. At night, the lights looked artificial—like a set dressing that forgot it was supposed to be convincing.
The breakfast place smelled like burnt espresso and sourdough toast. The kind of place where no one rushed you out, but no one asked how you were doing either. Perfect.
Jeff looked tired in a specific way—creased around the eyes, jaw tight, his dark blonde hair doing that thing it only did when he’d been up past midnight. He stirred his coffee without drinking it.
“Location scouting again?” I asked.
He nodded. “Every night this week.”
“And?”
He leaned back, exhaled through his nose. “New director. First feature. Already acting like he’s Coppola reincarnated.”
I smiled. “That bad?”
“He wants to change everything. Again. Yesterday it was a warehouse. Today it’s a beach. Tomorrow it’ll be a church or a desert or something poetic that makes no logistical sense.”
“Of course,” I said. “Why decide early when you can panic artistically?”
Jeff laughed, finally taking a sip. “He keeps saying he wants it to feel ‘raw.’ Which is code for ‘I don’t know what I’m doing but I need everyone else to pretend I do.’”
I watched him while he talked—how he leaned forward when he got into it, how his hands moved like he was still framing shots even when he wasn’t holding a camera. People forgot that about him sometimes. They heard screenwriter and imagined solitude. But he’d gone to film school. He’d directed. He knew how a set breathed, how chaos spread when one person didn’t make up their mind.
“I’ve been coming home around midnight,” he said. “Then lying awake replaying conversations I wish I’d handled differently.”
“Welcome to my job,” I said.
That got his attention.
“Serial burglary case,” I added. “Multiple locations. Same entry method. Same timing. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You sound like you’re enjoying it.”
“I am,” I said, surprised at how true it felt. “It’s consuming me. In a good way.”
He smiled at that. Not proud—relieved.
We ate for a while without talking. Outside, someone walked their dog like it was a daily ritual they took seriously. A couple argued softly at another table. Life happened in fragments.
Jeff reached for my plate. “You’re not finishing that.”
“Don’t start,” I said.
He grinned. “I’m helping.”
“By stealing.”
“By redistributing resources.”
I let him have the last bite.
We talked about nothing important. The neighbor who insisted on using a leaf blower every morning. A pothole that had somehow survived multiple city budgets. A ridiculous audition story he’d heard from a friend. The way our lives overlapped without colliding.
Then, somewhere between refills, it came up.
“Paris,” he said casually, like he was testing the word.
I looked at him. “Paris.”
“Just saying,” he added. “At some point.”
I imagined it immediately. Sidewalk cafés. Long walks without urgency. Museums where no one needed anything from me. A place where neither of us had to explain what we did for a living.
“We’d walk everywhere,” I said.
“And eat irresponsibly,” he added.
“I’d be insufferable about bread.”
“You already are.”
I smiled into my coffee.
We didn’t plan dates or flights. We didn’t name hotels. We just let the idea exist between us—something soft, something future, something untouched by deadlines or cases or directors who wanted to change everything at the last minute.
When we stood to leave, the sun was higher now, bright but forgiving.
Back up the hill, his house waited quietly. The city below went on doing what it did best—moving, grinding, asking for things.
Inside that space, for a few hours at least, nothing was required.
And that felt like enough.
