“Hey, troublemaker. That is not for you.” I crouch, tugging the material open before he can suffocate himself in bubble wrap. He pops out with a startled meow, fur puffed, like I’m the one interrupting his discovery and not trying to save his ass.
My hand brushes something solid buried under a sweater I’d crammed in as makeshift packing, and I know what it is before I even pull it free. A rectangular navy case, corners worn, one zipper tooth missing, smudged with colors that don’t wash out.
Inside, my brushes are exactly where I left them. Bent, frayed, stiff with dried pigment. Years of no use has left them ruined, and something inside me doesn’t like that thought.
I used to know who I was when I held these. Not in some grand, tortured-artist way—just… more certain. Like if I couldn’t say something out loud, I could at least get it on the page.
Now they feel strange. Like a version of me I’m not sure I can trust anymore.
Because how do you go from being that girl—messy, inspired, but free—to someone who got so tangled in somebody else’s story she lost her own?
I close the case. Not because I don’t want to dive deeper. But because I do. And that might be worse. I want to paint. I want to be me again, I just don’t know how to get there. I’m not even sure I can.
When I look up, Nick’s already curled into the suitcase, nuzzled into my sweater, chin tucked to his paw like his work here is done.
“Okay, Fury. You win,” I murmur.
The front door opens and closes, and then Jay walks in, damp curls clinging to his forehead, shirt stuck to his chest in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. He’s flushed fromrunning, breathing shallow, and somehow looks even better like this. My mind takes a mental screenshot of him unkept and disheveled because he’s always perfectly together, and I may never see him like this in any other capacity. Girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.
He pauses outside the door, then sees me and steps inside. His skin shines just slightly with sweat—his arms, his throat, the space beneath his collarbone where the fabric dips low. He smells like outside air and warm skin, mixed with the clean soap he always uses. I think it’s eucalyptus or mint or something designed to ruin me on a molecular level.
“Hey,” he says, still catching his breath. “Mind if I use the shower?”
I shrug, casual. Or trying to be, when my mind thinks,want me to join you?My mouth says… “It’s your shower, Jay. Go for it.”
Nick lets out a little purr and stretches again. Jay glances down at him. “He likes your suitcase, then?”
He drags the shirt over his head while he’s talking to me, casually standing there covered in sweat and only his shorts… what in the thick torso is this?
Yeah, okay, I’ve seen a shirtless guy before. But none of them were six feet away in my soon-to-be bedroom, muscles shifting under tanned skin, dusting of hair trailing low, looking completely unbothered while I tried not to drool like a cartoon wolf.
Jay’s body isn’t showy. It’s not some gym thirst trap thing. He’s lean, solid, cut in ways that speak to effort, not ego. His chest is broad, his waist trim but thick at the same time, and when he runs a hand through his hair, his bicep flexes just enough to fry my brain.
It’s at that moment that I realize he’s waiting for a reply from me. “Oh yeah, he loves anything cozy.”
Jay looks down at the box in my lap. “What’s that?”
I move quickly, stuffing it into the case before he can get a better look. “Just old paint stuff. Fury found it.”
Jay’s eyes flick to the case again, but he doesn’t say anything.
“It’s really nothing,” I assure.
He hides his lips between his teeth and nods, eyes still fixated on the box. “Can I…” He looks at me and clears his throat as he moves closer. “Will you show me anyway?” For some bewitching moment, I find myself nodding, spellbound by muscles and sweat, apparently.
He opens the box, pulling out the sketches of landscapes, sunsets, mountains—my favorite things to paint.
“You’re good,” he says with a quiet rasp.
I nod again, not because I agree but because my throat’s not cooperating and my heart’s already doing too much.
“You should go to the studio, they have some incredible supplies there.” He doesn’t make any more moves to the bathroom, but he does pass me the sketches back, and when our fingers brush, I can’t stop my sharp inhale as his skin touches mine, especially when I’m sharing something I haven’t in a long time. “I can… show you. I mean, we’d have to sneak me in. But the head of the art department used to love me, so maybe we won’t be in too much trouble.”
The sketchpad in my lap feels heavier all of a sudden. So does the space between us. “I’m probably not any good, I haven’t painted since...” I can’t seem to finish that and say I haven’t properly painted since my parents divorced, since I gave up the internship in London because of things I thought I didn’t deserve after everything with Rhys. I have a lot of regret over that, but at the time, it didn’t feel right to go. He doesn’t push for more of an answer. That’s one of the things I appreciate about him: he never pushes.
Sometimes, just thinking about stepping into the studio knots something tight in my chest, like I’ll be found out for everything I’ve wasted, everything I threw away. Or worse, what if I really have lost any and all talent I once had? I used to believe there was a place for me in that world, but now I’m not sure I’d recognize myself there.
My voice is small when it comes out. “I’m not sure I’d live up to expectations anymore.”
