His gaze deepens as though he’s searching for whatever fleeting thoughts were just inside my head before answering… “What if it’s about doing it because you want to? Not because there’s any expectations.”
I don’t have anything to say to that because there is still a part of me that wants to.
He leans his forearms on his knees, voice quieter now. “If painting makes you feel something, even for five minutes, that’s reason enough.”
“Painting always makes me feel something.”
And that’s what I’m not sure of. If I’m ready to feel it all again.
“Do you want to do it, Liv?”
The loaded question that seems to simultaneously slice through my defenses and have me hiding in plain sight. I can’t deny there’s an old itch sparking in my hands even as the familiar doubt presses in. I don’t know if I could handle the rush of it, the way painting always brings everything up with it—the good, the grief, the things I thought I’d buried.
I breathe out slowly, avoiding his gaze until I can manage to lift it again. “Maybe.”
“So, you’ll paint with me?”
His voice is so light and full of hope that I don’t think I could say no if I tried. My head nods tentatively.
“Good,” he says with a contented sigh. “The side door by the ceramics wing doesn’t always lock. You’d be surprised what people forget to fix.”
“Or we could use my key card?”
He smiles, and it’s crooked and devastating. “Here I thought you liked living on the edge.”
And just like that, I forget how to function again. Because it’s not the smile, exactly—it’s the way he doesn’t hold back when he looks at me. Like he’s seeing something I haven’t even figured out about myself yet. He’s always had that vibe, like this isn’t his first time on Earth and he’s got tricks up his sleeve. Well, the sleeve is figurative, because yes, he’s very much topless still.Sigh.
I blink once, try to play it cool. “Breaking and entering seems a little extreme for a paintbrush.”
He shrugs, so casual. “Art’s about risk.”
“It is…”
“I thought you wanted to take the risk, Olivia?”
My name tumbling so darkly from his lips lands like a fingerprint on my skin, making it ripple beneath an invisible touch.
Are we still talking about art? Do either of us even know anymore?
I could deflect. Make a joke. Pretend to be naive. But the longer he stands there, still not moving, still waiting like this doesn’t have to be rushed, the harder it is to look away. And the harder it is to lie to myself about the attraction I feel for him. I felt it the night of the storm, and it’s remained imprinted somewhere in my body, creeping up every time we’re close.
My fingers trace the corner of the sketchpad like I’m grounding myself in something. Like graphite and torn paper are enough to keep me here, in this moment, with this boy who isn’t touching me but still feels too close, sees too much.
This should feel safe. I mean, he does, and I can’t really pinpoint what, but there’s something about him that tells me I don’t need to put on a front. And maybe that’s what scares me most. My gut doesn’t know the difference between curiosity and danger anymore, and I don’t trust it not to misread this, too.
“If you’d rather we use your key card, we can,” he says, probably sensing my hesitation. His eyes are clear, and I know from the look on his face that he’s giving me an out. “Think about it.”
He slips away, and the bathroom door closes. A second later, the rattle of the tap, the low groan of old pipes adjusting, then the rush of water as the shower kicks on.
Making my way back into my temporary room with my box and sketchpad, I place them on the nightstand and walk toward the kitchen when I notice the steam starting to creep under the bathroom door, and it reminds me of the movies where the siren calls to the sailors, luring them with smoke and song... The sound of the water is steady, and suddenly I’m aware of every little sound echoing into the hallway. I’m definitely pretending not to be thinking about the naked man on the other side of the door.
There’s the occasional shift in pressure that makes the pipes click somewhere behind the wall. Every now and then, there’s a change in the sound—gentle splashes, the dull slide of a bottle being picked up and set back down. One short, muffled sigh that has me analyzing the silence between those movements. I find myself listening closer, like I’m waiting for something else.
I know I shouldn’t be.
I should walk away, but my feet are rooted to the spot in the hallway, and I’m wired. Every nerve is on high alert.
Another sound. This one is deeper. Drawn out. Making it impossible to lie to myself anymore.
