That should not be a normal sentence. It makes my stomach turn.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I say quietly. “Not if Lily is around. Not if you’re dragging us into it.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then, softer, “I didn’t plan for any of this.”
“Neither did I,” I say, and my throat tightens. “And now a woman I barely know wants me locked in a mansion because she hates you.”
His eyes harden at that, a flash of something dangerous, then it fades as quickly as it came. He’s tired. He’s bleeding. He’s still trying to be the biggest thing in every room even when he’s lying down.
“You should sleep,” I tell him, because if he keeps talking I’m going to say something that will crack me open.
He watches me for a long moment, like he wants to memorize my face all over again. Then his eyelids start to droop, the fight slowly leaving him.
“Stay,” he says, the word rough.
I swallow. “I’m here.”
His hand shifts on the sheet, searching blindly until I place my fingers in his. His grip closes around me, not tight, just certain.
A few minutes pass. His breathing evens out. The tension in his jaw eases. The hand holding mine loosens as sleep finally drags him under.
I sit there longer than I intend to, listening to the steady rhythm of him, watching the rise and fall of his chest because it’s proof he is still alive.
Eventually, I stand carefully and slip out of the room, closing the door almost all the way. I need a bathroom. I need cold water on my face. I need something normal.
The hallway is dim. The doors look the same. I pick one, push it open, and step inside.
It’s not a bathroom.
It’s a studio.
The space smells faintly of charcoal and paint and something clean, like fresh paper. A worktable sits in the middle. Canvases lean against the walls. Sketchbooks are stacked in messy piles. A lamp glows softly in the corner.
I take one step back, instinctively, like I’ve walked into something private.
Then I see the drawings.
My breath catches.
There are dozens. Maybe more.
Sketches pinned to boards. Portraits propped on easels. Quick pencil lines and careful shading, my face in different angles, different expressions. Me looking over my shoulder. Me laughing. Me asleep. Me with my hair down like that first night in the hotel. Me with my mouth parted like I’m about to speak. Me again and again, rendered with an attention that makes my skin prickle.
My hands fly to my mouth.
I move closer without meaning to, drawn in despite myself. My throat tightens as I recognize details no stranger should know. The curve of my collarbone. A small freckle near my jaw. The exact shape of my eyes when I’m trying not to cry.
I turn slowly, taking it all in, and a cold realization sinks deep into my chest.
He didn’t forget me.
Not for a single day.
I stand in that studio for too long, staring at versions of myself that should not exist.
My chest feels tight, like I can’t get a full breath in. I back out slowly and close the door with my fingertips, careful, like I’m afraid the room will bite.
I walk back to his bedroom on unsteady legs.
