“Why is that cat wearing a bow tie?”
***
Finn and Foxx stay for coffee and kitten cuddles, admiring Nick Fury’s new bow tie collar, but I had to shoo them away because I suddenly realized it’s almost six and I need to freshen up.
It’s not a date, though, I remind myself as I look into my wardrobe for something comfortable but also a little… nicer than my sweats.
I settle on a crop top, sports bra, and my leggings; just in case I do paint, I don’t want to ruin jeans.
Over an hour later, after fiddling with my hair for too long, I’m pulling up outside the school building.
Considering my youthful days as a wildcard, I don’t know if I ever snuck into school after hours. Out of school during hours? Sure, playing hooky is the best, especially if it comes with an ice cream trip. But sneakingintoschool feels a lot like I’ve gone wrong somewhere.
I pause outside the door, expecting it to be locked, but when the handle gives beneath my fingers, a quiet click echoing down the empty hallway, my pulse jumps with the thrill of what might happen next.
As I step inside, the hallway curves high above me, paint peeling in places that no one’s gotten around to fixing; it’s lived-in rather than neglected. Somewhere, a cleaner’s vacuum hums faintly, a reminder that the world’s still moving even though this stretch of campus feels paused.
I’ve grown weirdly fond of this place in such a short time. It smells like pencil shavings and coffee grounds, with an undertone of something sweet. The windows are enormous, throwing in pale light that makes even the scuffed floors look intentional. There’s always a bit of paint on the doorknobs, initials carved into the benches, evidence of people who couldn’t help but leave a mark.
Halfway down the corridor, a light glows under one of the doors. The closer I get, the more I can hear the shift of weight against a stool, the creak of wood. My heart does this inconvenient little leap. It’s the art I’m excited about. The art.
Sure, if that art is a six-foot-two man who’s excellent at being inconveniently perfect in almost every way.
I nudge the door open, and there he is. Jay, on the high stool, camera resting on his thigh. The warm, fading yellow light catches in his hair, making the ends of his black hair look golden.
His mouth tips into the faintest smile when he turns toward me. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo, closing the door behind me. My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room, so I move farther in, glancing around to survey the room he’s picked. It’s one of the smaller studios, from what I know, but it’s perfect.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he says, straightening.
My hands tuck into my jacket pockets. “My bed and mattress turned up, otherwise I would’ve been here sooner.”
Concern flickers over his features. “Did they deliver it right to our door?”
The fact that he just casually called his apartment ours doesn’t go unnoticed, but I try not to linger on it too much. “Finn and Foxx happened to be coming in as I got home, so they helped.”
That earns me a quiet laugh that rolls through the space, adding another layer of something burning between us. “Good, well, we can build it this weekend.” He nods toward the easel in the corner, already set up with a fresh canvas, paints, and brushes. “But right now, I thought maybe we could take it slow”—curse my mind for thinking of something horny right now—“or we could start with just a simple idea and sketching, unless you have something in mind?”
Oh, I have plenty in mind. Not much of it is art-related at this moment, though.
Despite my wayward thoughts trying to take over here, I take it all in, the setup, the big arched windows, and realize that I haven’t been in here yet, not this exact room. The sun is setting, the sky spilling wishes and hopes in oranges and rusts that bleed into navy. The glass catches the light and throws it back acrossthe floor in fractured shapes, like the room itself is trying to hold onto the last scraps of the day.
Something stirs in me, a muscle memory I’d almost forgotten, begging to be let out. The part that aches to be inspired by sunsets, by impossible color combinations, by the curve of shadows stretching long across wood. The same part that finds meaning in small things—like a one-eyed kitten, proof that broken can still be beautiful.
“It’s… perfect,” I say, not sure if I mean the studio or the way he’s looking at me right now.
He moves closer, slow enough that I have time to notice every little detail. There’s a smudge of graphite on his hand, which means he must’ve been drawing tonight, the faint crease in his shirt, the way his eyes catch the fading light. “Then we’ll start here,” he says softly, picking up a brush and turning it over between his fingers before offering it to me.
The air between us tightens when I take it, my fingers brushing his just long enough to feel the zap of his touch. Staring at the blank canvas, I suddenly have that same surge of fear, and my grip tightens around the brush. “Wait, I don’t know if I can do this.”
His hand closes gently over mine, steadying it. His thumb moves in slow, easy strokes, back and forth, coaxing rather than pushing. “Get out of your head, Liv,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it settles right against my skin. “You can do this.”
The warmth of his breath is close enough that I swear I feel it travel along the curve of my shoulder and skim across my collarbone. My body reacts before my brain catches up, a shiver sparking low and deep, my heartbeat kicking harder. Something feels so safe about his hand on mine, and every single instinct in me is screaming to let him lead, guide me here. The old Liv wouldn’t have thought twice, she’d be twirling in his arms and kissing him, but this feels more important to both of us.
I keep my eyes on the canvas, pretending that the anticipation of creating something again is the reason my pulse is racing.
Then he lets me go, and I’m bereft. “I’m right here,” he breathes, and those three words give me enough confidence that my hand dips the brush into a deep red, almost black in the jar. I drag it across the canvas in harsh diagonal strokes, loading the bristles until the paint feels heavy. Then I reach for a bright yellow, jamming it into the center and letting it bleed into the red until the middle of the canvas glows like it’s holding heat.
