Keaton wasn’t sure how to interpret that statement. Maybe he didn’t need to. “Change is always hard, but this could be exactly what you need to prove to yourself that youarecapable of doing whatever you’d like.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jules didn’t say anything more, and Keaton let them sit with their feelings for a bit. Maybe he didn’tneedto do anything other than be there for Jules.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, they reluctantly retreated inside, the warmth of the apartment enveloping them like a familiar embrace. Keaton closed the door behind them, the sound of the rain a comforting backdrop to the quiet that settled between them.
Jules lingered by the window, watching the sky flash with lightning. Keaton watched them for a moment, the urge to speak warring with the comfort of silence.
Finally, Jules turned, their expression open and honest. “Thanks, Keaton,” they said, their voice a soft echo of the gratitude that filled the space between them.
Keaton nodded, the words lodged in his throat. “Anytime,” he replied, the promise hanging in the air like a beacon.
As Jules disappeared into their room, the storm raging outside, Keaton knew something had shifted between them. It was a change he couldn’t quite define, but it was there, a persistent presence that refused to be ignored.
And for the first time in a long while, he found he didn’t mind. If anything, he welcomed it.
Keaton wanderedinto the softly lit living room, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. It had been days since their conversation on the balcony, yet the memory lingered like the scent of rain. He found Jules curled up on the couch, sketchbook in hand, a mug of chamomile tea resting on the coffee table, part of their evening routine, he’d learned. The air was perfumed with its soothing aroma, adding to the warmth of the scene before him.
The light from the lamp cast gentle shadows across Jules’s features, highlighting the serene concentration on their face. There was something almost reverent about the way they focused on their art, as if each stroke of the pencil was a meditation, a way to make sense of the world. Keaton hoped Jules found a way to make money off their art because it’d be a shame to waste so much talent and passion.
“Sketching again?” Keaton’s voice was a soft reverence, careful not to break the calm of the moment.
Jules looked up, their smile gentle and inviting. “It helps quiet my mind,” they replied, eyes holding a quiet invitation that drew him closer.
Keaton settled beside them, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. He felt the calm energy Jules exuded, a balm against his own restless thoughts.
“I envy that,” he confessed, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It was a rare admission, leaving him feeling both exposed and oddly liberated. The more time he spent with Jules, the more he paid attention to his own thoughts and feelings.
Jules’s smile widened, a touch of understanding in their eyes. “I think everyone has their way of handling stress. Yours is probably just more organized than mine.”
Keaton chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. “You might be right about that.”
He picked up the thriller novel Finn had brought him this morning. He wasn’t much of a reader, but Finn couldn’t stop talking about this particular title, so Keaton had told him to bring it in when he finished reading. If these quiet nights in the living room were going to become more frequent, he needed something to do other than watch Jules draw like a creepy stalker.
It only took a few pages for Keaton to be sucked into the story, and before he knew it, he was into the third chapter. Every once in a while, he’d glance up to see Jules still hyper-focused on the paper and pencils. It was adorable how their nose scrunched up and they leaned closer to the paper, brows furrowed in concentration. Whatever they were working on, they were taking great care to get everything just right.
Eventually, they let out a deep breath. They looked up, the corner of their mouth tipping into a shy smile when they realized Keaton was—once again—watching them work. “Want to see?” they asked, their voice tinged with hopeful anticipation.
Keaton accepted the sketchbook, careful not to smudge the pencil lines as he studied the intricate sketch. His heart skipped a beat when he realized he was looking at the front of their building. Jules was a wizard with their pencils. The Anderson Homeworks logo on the window was perfect.
He squinted to get a closer look and realized Jules had even managed to draw Finn sitting at his desk behind the logo, fainter so it looked realistic. They hadn’t missed a single detail, and Keaton was honored they’d chosen to draw the place that meant so much to him. It complicated his feelings, drawing him further into their world, making it harder to keep his distance.
As he handed the sketchbook back, a comfortable silence settled between them. Keaton had no clue what to say in response. What he did know was that he wanted Jules to find a way to have that sketch blown up and printed so he could hang it in the office. Just as Keaton was about to speak, there was a loud pop and the apartment suddenly plunged into darkness. He heard Jules’s surprised gasp, followed by a playful laugh that broke the tension.
“Damned transformer blew,” Keaton announced. It wasn’t super common, but it seemed to happen far more frequently than Keaton liked. He didn’t even bother calling it in, knowing they’d be inundated with other people calling, demanding their power come back on immediately.
“Looks like we’re roughing it tonight,” Jules quipped, their voice light and teasing. “Good thing I’d already finished. Knowing my luck, there would’ve been a huge pencil mark across the page.”
“That would have been a shame, but I’m sure you could have fixed it,” Keaton replied. He crossed the apartment carefully to avoid running into anything. He kept a flashlight in the junkdrawer in the kitchen, and that would at least give them a bit of light. When he turned it on, nothing happened. Of course it was dead.
He was about to pull out his phone when he heard the flick of a lighter. When he turned around, Jules was arranging candles on the end tables, lighting each one to illuminate the room. The flickering light cast a warm, intimate glow, transforming the space into a cozy cocoon of shadows and soft light.
The room felt far too intimate with the dancing flames circling the couch. He should retreat to his bedroom, away from temptation, but he wasn’t ready to say goodnight to Jules. Keaton quickly pulled a beer out of the fridge for himself and poured a glass of the white wine Jules had picked up at the farmers’ market last weekend for them.
The thumping of his chest felt like a sledgehammer breaking down the walls he’d tried to build around his heart. When he handed Jules their wine, another brick fell away. He settled on the couch, the distance between them shrinking in the newfound closeness.
“Have you ever done this before?” Jules asked, their eyes sparkling.
Keaton shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “I’m more of a flashlight guy, but it’s nice.”
