“Heaven, it’s literally three circles stacked on top of each other.”
I reach across the table to grab her canvas.
She beats me to it, snatching it up and twisting her body away.
“Heaven—give it!” I lean forward, stretching. “You acting like it’s a Picasso.”
She angles the canvas farther from me, laughing. “Because it looks like it melted and then got hit by a bus.”
I reach again—too fast.
My arm bumps my paint cup.
It tips.
Paint slides across the table stopping before dripping on the floor.
“Oh shit?—!”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh hell—this is Iris’s favorite rug!”
We both leap up at the same time, grabbing paper towels, napkins, literally anything. We move everything from the living room to the kitchen so we don’t make an even bigger mess. When we head back to the couch, we both reach for the same piece of paper towel at the same time.
She goes right, I go left—and we crash into each other.
Our heads bump.
Hard.
“Ow—damn!” Heaven winces, rubbing her forehead.
I press my hand to mine. “You have a big forehead.”
She snorts. “You are one to talk. You love giving me concussions. It’s truly your fault.”
“My fault? You leaned into me!”
“I leaned away!”
“Lies!”
We stare at each other for exactly two seconds… then break into full laughter.
Loud, ridiculous, uncontrollable laughter.
When it finally settles, Heaven looks up at me. “You good?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not even close.”
Neither of us moves.
Then she leans in—slow, careful, testing—and I meet her halfway.
Our lips touch, soft at first, like a question.
Then again, deeper, her hand sliding to my jaw, my fingers curling into her shirt.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
