Darhg’s cabin feels like a sanctuary to me. It feels more like home thananywhere I've ever lived.
The low thrum of an approaching engine makes my breath catch, fear and nerves knotting in my chest. Then relief melts through me as the SUV's familiar black silhouette slides past the snow-heavy pines. My pulse quickens, not from fear this time, but from anticipation. Ever since Jennifer's visit this afternoon, her words about mates who make room for you to be large have been echoing in my mind.
The door opens with a gust of frigid air, snow dust shaking from Darhg's broad shoulders. But that’s not what stops me dead in my tracks. What’s stopping my brain from functioning normally is what he’s carrying with him. His massive arms are loaded with packages and bags, and what appears to be a wooden easel is tucked under one arm.
I blink, my brain refusing to process what my eyes clearly see.
His expression is a fascinating contradiction. He looks embarrassed, with his ears flushed and gaze skittering away from mine, yet he also looks resolved, jaw set and shoulders squared like he's preparing for battle.
"I wasn't sure what you'd prefer," he says as he sets everything down with careful motion. "So I asked the shopkeeper at the art supply store for the best of, well, everything."
I stare in stunned silence as he unpacks bag after bag. On the kitchen counter, he lines tubes of oil paints in every color imaginable—cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue, burnt sienna—their labels pristine and waiting. A wooden palette still smelling of fresh varnish joins the paint tubes. Brushes appearin every size, from delicate detail work to broad strokes, their bristles soft and perfect. Canvas boards, stretched canvases, and sketch pads pile on a chair.
There’s more. Charcoal pencils. A wooden box that opens to reveal compartments for mixing colors.
"Darhg," I breathe, my voice catching as he continues pulling items from the bags. "This is so generous. A whole studio's worth of supplies."
He pauses, a bottle of linseed oil in his large hands, and finally meets my eyes. "You said you wanted to paint again. I thought you would need proper supplies."
The words trail off, but I’m not sure it’s because they’re drowning under the sound of rushing blood in my ears. I realize Darhg truly listened. He didn’t just hear me.
He listened. He remembered. He cared. When I confessed my dreams in a moment of vulnerability, he didn't just pretend to hear me. He acted on it. For me.
For me to be large.
"I don't know what half of these things are for," he admits, gesturing at the organized chaos now covering our kitchen counter and table. "The woman at the shop, Mrs. Chen, she kept adding things. Said any serious artist would need them."
My throat closes up entirely. The sheer thoughtfulness of it, the care he took to make sure I had everything I could possibly need, overwhelms me completely. This isn't just art supplies. It’s encouragement. It’s faith. In me.In my ability.
It's him saying my dreams matter. That I matter.
"How much did all this cost?" I whisper, though part of me doesn't want to know.
He shrugs, that careful neutral expression sliding back into place. "Doesn't matter."
But it does matter. It matters that he spent what had to be a small fortune on supplies for a passion I mentioned once. It matters that he drove to town and asked questions and carried all of this back here for me.
I reach for one of the brushes, rolling the smooth wooden handle between my fingers. "I haven't painted in years, Darhg. What if I'm terrible at it now?"
"You won’t be," he says simply. "And all you need to prove it is right in front of you."
A shock of pure joy courses through my body. Not just at the gift itself, but at what it represents. He sees me. Not Senator Quinn's daughter, not a political accessory, not the carefully managed image I've been forced to maintain. He sees the girl I abandoned, the woman I want to become.
I throw my arms around his neck with a shaky laugh that's half sob, pressing my face against the warm column of his throat.
"You did this for me."
His response is awkward and soft, his large hands settling at my waist.
"Of course I did. How could I not? You deserve it, Rona."
The simple honesty of it nearly undoes me. When was the last time someone paid attention to what I wanted instead of what they needed me to be?
I pull back to look at him, my hands still resting on his chest. There's something else in his expression now, something more serious that cuts through the warmth of the moment. The softness of moments before vanishes, and I know he has news to share.
"What else happened?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to break this perfect bubble we've created. “What did your contact tell you?”
He guides me to the sofa, his hands gentle but his posture stiff. When we sit, he turns to face me fully, and I can see him hesitate before he speaks.
