EMMA
The studio is nestledin the Arts District, located on the third floor of a converted warehouse where the scent of old brick and linseed oil hangs heavy in the evening air. I spot Kai before I even reach the entrance. He is leaning against the worn brick, scrolling through his phone. He doesn't match the neighborhood. Not even close.
He sees me and the tension leaves his body so fast I almost miss it, replaced by a smile that makes the whole week worth surviving.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I stop in front of him, painfully aware that I came straight from the office; my blazer is slightly wrinkled, and my hair is windswept from the commute. “I am so sorry. I meant to bring your jacket, but I forgot to grab it this morning in the rush, and I didn't have time to go back to my apartment.”
“Emma.” He smiles, and for a second, I forget the cold. He has a tiny dimple on the left and a faint shadow of stubble that highlights the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw. “You don’t need to worry about the jacket. You can bring it next time.”
“Ok, but really, I’m sorry.” I shift my bag on my shoulder, trying to find my footing. “How was your week? Did you survive the energy sector?”
“It was a demanding week,” he says, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. “I have a habit of going off the grid when a deadline is looming, but once the air cleared today, I knew I wanted to see you.”
I take note of the way he says it, as if work is a tide that pulls him under completely. “And a painting class is how you celebrate?” I tease, tilting my head. “Most people go for champagne and overpriced dinners.”
“Champagne is predictable,” he says. “And I suspected you might prefer this.”
“I do.” I grin, and some of my Monday-to-Friday armor loosens. “But fair warning, I haven't done this in years.”
He holds the door open. “After you. I looked into the instructor. Celeste Moreau. Apparently, she's a big deal.”
I stop in the doorway. “TheCeleste Moreau? The one who does the massive textured abstracts?”
“You know her work?”
“I’ve studied it. Her use of layering is incredible.” I grab Kai’s arm without thinking, my fingers pressing into the solid muscle of his bicep. “And you booked us a class with her?”
“I thought you might like it,” he says simply.
I let him go and shake my head, a grin finally breaking through my nerves. “By letting us be terrible at painting right in front of her? That is a bold strategy, Kai.”
“The things I do for you.” He says it lightly, but the look in his eyes, amused and yet searching, makes my stomach do a slow, nervous roll.
Celeste Moreau is exactly as I imagined. She has silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe knot and paint etchedunder her fingernails. She looks at you like she's already decided what you're hiding.
“You’re my nineteen-hundred-hours slot.” She checks her tablet, her gaze flicking between us. “Kaiden and Emma?”
I glance at Kai. Kaiden. The full name sounds like a different man.
“That's us,” he says.
We claim two spots near the window. The late sun cuts across the blank canvases, turning the white fabric into a sheet of gold. As we set up, I’m fascinated by his hands, big, strong, and I definitely should stop staring at them.
“Have you painted before?” I ask, opening my kit.
“Technical drawings,” he says, picking up a brush and holding it with a strange, rigid awkwardness. “Everything I build has specifications. Measurements. This is... messy.”
“So this is torture for you.”
“Chaos is not my specialty.”
“Then why are we here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he says, setting the brush down and picking it up again as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands when they aren't working. “This seemed like something you would say yes to.”
I turn toward the paint tubes. Burnt orange. Cadmium yellow. I used to paint with these all the time. I'd forgotten. Kai stares at the paints the way most people stare at contracts. He reaches for Prussian blue, raw umber, and black.
