Jules looked up then because they had to, and found him watching them with that same quiet intensity he always wore when the stakes were high. Not fearful. Not cautious. Just honest.
“I’ve never done this before,” Jules admitted. “The slow thing. The real thing. I’m used to people who want the version of me that’s easy to show off. The one who makes jokes and doesn’t ask for anything.”
Keaton set his sandwich down. “I don’t want a version of you.”
Jules’s throat tightened. “Then what do you want?”
“You. All of you. Even the parts you’re not sure you want to share yet.” He stepped forward just enough to close the space between them, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jules blinked hard, trying to keep the burn behind their eyes from spilling over. “For someone who claims to be bad at relationships, you have a way of knowing just the right thing to say.”
They reached out, fingers closing around his. Keaton’s hand was warm, solid, grounding in a way that made Jules feel like maybe they weren’t falling—they were landing.
It wasn’t long before the last of the grilled cheese was gone and the kitchen settled into a comfortable silence. Jules’s fingers brushed the edge of their cup, half-filled with water now gone lukewarm, still catching the trace of butter in the air.
Keaton had leaned back against the counter, arms folded, a low hum of something almost like calm around him. Not quite relaxed, but closer than Jules had seen him in a while. It was as if neither of them knew what was supposed to come next.
They stood slowly, stretching just enough to feel their spine pop, and picked up their plate. “I’ll wash?—”
“Leave it,” Keaton said. “I’ll wash in the morning after breakfast.”
Jules snorted. “Somehow, I’m not sure that’s going to work out for you.” Keatonhatedanything being left in the sink at the end of the night.
“Maybe I just need the right motivation to keep my mind off what hasn’t been cleaned up.” He reached out for Jules’s hand, leading them back into the living room. Jules’s heart raced, andthey felt a bit dizzy from anticipation. There was no doubt that tonight would be different from any other since they’d moved in.
They stopped short when they caught sight of the formerly bare wall.
Something was new—no, not new. Familiar.
Their breath caught as a lump formed in their throat.
Mounted above the bookshelf, hung with a precision only Keaton would’ve bothered with, was a painting. One of theirs. One they hadn’t seen in years. It had to have been in one of the boxes of canvases they’d moved into the storage room, but that didn’t explain why it washere, in a place of pride.
It was sharp-edged and chaotic. Reds and ochres clashing across thick strokes of black, the texture built up so heavily it refused to be ignored. They’d painted it during a breakup that had gutted them and then shoved it in a storage bin because it had felt too loud to hang, too naked.
Jules stepped closer, heart thudding somewhere behind their ribs. “You hung that?”
Keaton appeared behind them, close enough that Jules felt the heat of him before they heard the answer.
“Yeah,” he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t gone digging through their storage tubs to find it. “I liked it. It felt like…you.”
Jules turned, eyebrows drawn together. “That’s not exactly a flattering comparison. That painting’s a whole mess.”
“I know,” Keaton said simply. “But it’s honest. It’s bold. Doesn’t apologize for taking up space.”
Jules blinked. The room blurred a little at the edges. Should they tell him what inspired the painting? No, there was no room for the past with them tonight.
“I want you here,” Keaton continued, voice softer now. “Even with you leaving your socks on the living room floor. Even when you forget I’m sleeping across the hall and turn up your music so you can paint to unwind after a long day at work.”
Jules swallowed hard, the words catching somewhere between their ribs and their throat. “You went through my stuff?”
“Only the art bins. I was looking for something to fill the space. Found that, and it just…felt like the one.”
They stared at the canvas again. Their hands itched with the memory of painting it—how raw they’d felt, how much of themselves they’d poured into the layers.
No one had ever chosen that version of them.
People liked the curated pieces. The ones full of light and whimsy, safe colors and soft edges. This one had teeth. And Keaton had looked at it and seen something worth displaying.
