The door shuts.
Silence crashes back into the studio, heavier than before.
I let out a shaky breath. “Well.”
Boone drags a hand down his face. “That went great.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound a little hysterical. “Your friends are… thorough.”
“Nosy fucks,” he corrects.
I glance at the paint on his arm, the way it contrasts with his skin. “You didn’t deny anything.”
He looks at me sharply.
“Didn’t feel like lying,” he says.
My chest does a dangerous little flip.
We stand there, awkward now, the moment cracked open but not gone. It hums under the surface, undeniable.
“I should… clean up,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I should, too.”
Neither of us moves.
His gaze drops to my collarbone again, to the pastel strokes drying there. “Those colors,” he says quietly. “They suit you.”
I meet his eyes. “Yours suit you too.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Careful, Firefly.”
“Why?”
“Because next time,” he says, voice low and steady, “I won’t stop when someone knocks.”
My breath catches.
“Next time?” I manage.
He steps back then, giving me space, giving himself restraint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind him before I can say another word.
I stand alone in my studio, heart racing, paint drying on my skin like a promise.
Interrupted.
But not undone.
Chapter Nine
Boone
I don’t go back into my workshop.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
