“Stop being dramatic,” she says. “Come in.”
She steps back, and I walk inside her place like I own it, which I don’t—but something in me likes the idea a little too much.
The studio smells like paint and pine and possibility. Half the room is in chaos: boxes, rolls of paper, jars of brushes, a ladder leaning against a wall with a strand of lights wrapped around it like a lazy snake. The other half looks like she actually has a plan—canvases stacked neatly, a whiteboard with sketches, a little table set up for kids with tiny stools.
There’s a watercolor palette on the counter like it’s a living thing. Reds bleeding into oranges, blues pooling like ink.
Color everywhere.
It’s… loud.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that makes me feel like I’ve been living in black-and-white and didn’t realize it.
Ember watches me take it in, chin lifted like she’s daring me to insult it.
“So,” she says, voice bright but edged. “Where’s this terrifying death wiring?”
I swing my gaze back to her. “You always talk like you’re picking a fight.”
“I’m from the city,” she says. “It’s my love language.”
I set my coffee on her counter. “You want to start with a kiss then?”
Her breath catches.
Just a hitch. Barely there.
But I see it.
And I file it away.
“I want to start with you doing your job,” she snaps, cheeks pink.
“Mm-hmm.” I step around her, close enough that my shoulder brushes hers on purpose. “Move.”
She doesn’t.
She lifts her chin. “Make me.”
The air shifts.
Like the room tightens around us.
I stop in front of her, my body blocking the path, and I don’t touch her—not yet—but I let the weight of me speak. Let her feel the difference between us without saying it out loud.
Her eyes flick down my chest. Back up to my face. She swallows.
“I could,” I say quietly.
Her voice is breathy when she answers, and I know she hates herself for it. “You won’t.”
I smile. Slow. Sharp. “Not in the morning. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
She scoffs. “You’re not a gentleman. You’re a menace with a limp.”
My jaw tightens reflexively at the word limp, but I don’t let her see it. Not right now. Not when she’s standing here with war in her eyes and paint on her cheek and her mouth acting like it wants trouble.
