Certain

The second project is easier.

Not the work. The work is the work. Revisions and calls and feedback cycles, the same machinery as before. But the dynamic between you has four months of context behind it now, and that changes everything. You don’t have to figure each other out. You already know how she thinks. She already knows how you work. The professional frame is back but it’s lighter than it was the first time. Worn more casually, like something you both know is there but have stopped performing.

There’s more banter.

That’s the thing that sneaks up on you.

Week two. A call running through feedback on the home goods campaign direction. You’ve proposed a muted earthy palette. She comes back with notes.

“Comment seven,” she says.

“I saw it.”

“And?”

“I think you’re wrong,” you say flatly.

“I’m not wrong.”

“The terracotta reads too warm against the linen. It pulls the whole thing toward rustic and Maison Haru isn’t rustic.”

“I didn’t say rustic. I said grounded.”

“Grounded and rustic are neighbors.”

“They’re not.”

“They are on the mood board you sent.”

A pause. You look at the mood board.

“That one image,” you say.

“That one image is doing a lot of work,” she says.

“Fair. I’ll pull it and rebalance.”

“Thank you.” A pause. “See, that’s why I like working with you.”

“Because I admit when you’re right?”

“Because you don’t make me argue for ten minutes before you admit it.”

You almost say something. You don’t.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing.”

“You were going to say something.”

“I was going to say the first project took longer.”

“The first project you were more stubborn.”

“I was testing the feedback process,” you say while putting your hands up.

“You were being difficult.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

She laughs. You can hear it even through the speaker. The real on. And you sit back in your chair and you’re smiling at the ceiling of Studio Sora at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. Ryujin walks past your desk, glances at you, and keeps walking with an expression of someone who has clocked something and is choosing to say nothing about it.

Week four. Site visit for the ceramics shoot. A potter’s studio in another province, two hours by car. You drive. She’s in the passenger seat with a printed brief on her lap and a coffee she got from a drive-through on the way out of Seoul.

“You printed the brief,” you say.

“I like paper.”

“We have things called smart phones and tablets now. You can even have multiple briefs on them.”

“Paper doesn’t need charging.”

You don’t say anything to that because it’s a reasonable point and you don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

She reads through her notes. You drive. The city thins out and becomes highway and then countryside, the fields going grey and flat on either side.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Yeah.”

“The bookstore campaign. You said someone pointed you toward it.”