I turned back to the chaos in front of me, the brush trembling slightly between my fingers. “Chaos.”
“Intentionally?”
“Isn’t that the only way it counts?”
He didn’t answer, but the silence carried his attention just as clearly.
“This is…unexpected,” I said finally, forcing the words past the tightening in my throat.
“It wasn’t planned.” His eyes left the page, finding me instead. “But I suppose that’s how most things begin.”
The room shifted around us. The air pressed closer, thicker, and I became aware of how empty the studio had become, the hum of the lights, the faint creak of the easel, the subtle scrape of his chair as he leaned back, watching me.
“Do you come here often?” he asked, the question slow, conversational on the surface, but threaded through with something that didn’t belong to casual talk.
“Usually with Aster.”
“But today you’re alone.”
I hesitated, letting the pause drag a little too long. “I needed to clear my head.”
“And have you?”
“No.”
A silence followed, not empty but alive, pulling taut until I could feel it in the pulse at the base of my throat. Then his voice came again, softer, warmer, but edged with a quiet danger that made the air around us shift.
“Do I have something to do with that?”
The question landed between us with the precision of a knife. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His gaze dropped to the canvas, studied it for a moment, then found me again.
“You always paint when you’re running from something?”
“I’m not running,” I said, the words sharper than I intended, though my voice betrayed me, too thin, too careful to sound untouched.
“Hmm.” He stepped closer to the second easel, not touching it, his attention grazing over me instead. “You’ve used five colors and three brushes in under ten minutes. That’s not painting. That’s bleeding.”
I lifted my chin, defiant but trembling on the inside. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in artistic intention.”
“I’m not.” His gaze met mine, and the stillness between us deepened. “But I’ve studied enough human behavior to know when someone’s trying not to scream.”
The quiet that followed stretched until it felt fragile, strung tight between our bodies, waiting to break under the weight of one wrong word. Neither of us moved. Neither of us looked away.
“What are you doing here?” I asked at last, pretending to study the brush in my hand even though I couldn’t remember which color I’d dipped it into.
“Should I not be?”
“You’re not usually here midweek.”
Something dangerous pulled at the corner of his mouth, lazy, crooked, the hint of a smirk that could undo a person if they weren’t careful. His eyes held that familiar glint, sharp enough to catch on my breath.
“Are you stalking me, Miss Carter?” he asked, his voice smooth and dark with humor that wasn’t innocent at all.
The words slid into me, warm and unwelcome, and my stomach twisted. The way he said it, it wasn’t just teasing; it was a challenge, one that made my pulse skip and my skin tighten.
I folded my arms, hoping he wouldn’t notice how my hands shook. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He tilted his head, studying me with that quiet patience that made the air feel too heavy. “Too late for that.”
