Not literally, of course. But the thought sends an unexpected thrill through me.
“Focus,” I mutter, dipping my brush into the deep indigo I’ve mixed. I make a sweeping arc across the canvas, then another. Working quickly, not thinking, just feeling.
When I step back, I see I’ve painted the curve of a back—a spine arching in what could be pleasure or pain. My cheeks heat up, but I keep going, adding shadows, depth, the suggestion of hands gripping pale flesh.
This isn’t like my usual work. No hiddenconstellations or cosmic patterns. This is primal. Raw. I switch to a wider brush, creating abstract shapes that transform into intertwined bodies as I work.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper, thinking of Gabe. His voice was deep and smooth like aged bourbon.
I’ve never painted anything like this before. Never wanted to. I’ve always transformed the world into patterns, seeing the mathematics beneath reality. But now I’m painting pure sensation.
My phone buzzes with a text. I ignore it, lost in creating shadows that suggest an open mouth pressed to skin. When I finally check, it’s Maya asking about lunch tomorrow.
I set the phone down without answering and return to my canvas. The painting grows darker, more urgent. Bodies emerging from abstract darkness. Hands everywhere. Possession.
I haven’t even kissed him yet, and already he’s rewired something in me. Unlocked doors I didn’t know existed. It’s terrifying.
It’s exhilarating.
My phone rings as I’m rinsing paint from my brushes. Maya’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, sorry I didn’t text back.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, wiping my hands on a rag. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“New painting?” Maya asks. “I thought you were done with the exhibition pieces.”
I stare at the canvas across the room. The tangled bodies. The suggestion of pleasure and pain is intertwined.
“It’s... something different. I’m not sure what it is yet.”
There’s a pause. “This is about Gabe, isn’t it?”
The directness of her question makes me inhale sharply. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a particular tone when you’re obsessed,” she says with a hint of amusement.
I sink onto my paint-splattered stool. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Maya. There’s something about him...”
“Something dangerous?” Her voice is surprisingly neutral.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair, leaving a smudge of indigo. “I get this feeling when I’m around him—like he’s not showing everything. Like there’s something powerful and... dark underneath all that charm.”
“And that scares you?”
“That’s the problem,” I whisper, glancing at the explicit painting drying on my easel. “It should terrify me. But instead, it makes me...” I swallow hard, embarrassed to say it even to my best friend.
“Wet?” Maya finishes for me.
“God, yes. What’s wrong with me?”
I expect her to warn me, to remind me of every red flag I’ve ignored in previous relationships. Instead, her voice is surprisingly calm, almost knowing.
“Not everyone who understands the darkness is a threat,” Maya says carefully. “Sometimes darkness is just... honesty. And sometimes what scares us is exactly what we need.”
I blink, surprised by her response. “That doesn’t sound like the Maya who lectured me for three hours about dating the gallery owner’s nephew, but maybe you’re right,” I say finally. “I can’t tell if what I’m feelingis good or bad.”
“Sometimes it’s both,” Maya replies. “Promise you’ll keep your eyes open.”
“I will. I should go—need to get ready. He’s playing for me tonight.”
