The brush drags slowly, deliberately, like he’s got all the time in the world. The bristles are cool, wet, sending shivers straight through my ribs. He paints a line of pale blue along my collarbone, then gold just beneath it, the color warm even before it dries.
“This,” he murmurs, eyes tracking the path of the brush, “is calm.”
I laugh weakly. “You have terrible instincts.”
He flicks his gaze up to mine. “Do I?”
My mouth opens. No sound comes out.
He adds a soft wash of pink near my shoulder, barely grazing skin. His thumb brushes against me as he steadies my arm. That touch is the loudest thing in the room.
“This,” he continues, lower now, “is warmth.”
I shiver. “You’re projecting.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re brighter than you think.”
I hate how much that lands.
The studio is silent except for our breathing. I can smell oil and pigment and tomato sauce still lingering faintly in the air. Boone is close enough that I can see the faint line between his brows, the concentration there, the way his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back.
He finishes the last stroke slowly, then lifts the brush away.
For a second, neither of us moves.
I’m aware of everything at once—my bare feet on the cool concrete, the way my skin hums where he touched me, the way his eyes are darker now, heated and intent.
“Boone,” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose. “Firefly.”
The word curls around me.
He sets the brush down carefully, like if he doesn’t, something will break. His hand lingers on the table. Mine hovers uselessly at my side. The distance between us is suddenly too small and somehow still not enough.
“I shouldn’t—” I start.
“You should,” he counters immediately.
My pulse spikes.
His hand lifts. Hesitates. Drops to his side again.
We’re right there.
Right on the edge of something that feels inevitable and terrifying and so, so wanted.
And then a knock slams against the front door.
“Boone?” a familiar voice calls. “You here, man?”
I jump like I’ve been electrocuted.
Boone freezes, eyes shutting for half a second. When he opens them again, there’s a flash of something wild and frustrated and very male.
“Shit,” he mutters.
The door opens before either of us can move.
