5
AVERY
The brush moves acrosscanvas in a long sweep of pearlescent white, and I'm lost in it—that place where time dissolves and there's nothing but the work taking shape beneath my hands. Soft light pours through the studio's tall windows, warm against my shoulders, catching the wet paint and making it glow. I've been standing here for nearly two hours, building up layers, stepping back to study the composition, stepping forward again to add another translucent glaze.
My shoulders ache, but I don’t mind. It means I’ve been focused on my art instead of scattered across a dozen wedding details and press anxieties. I carry another ache today too, the pleasant one that settled into my muscles last night while Nick had me pinned beneath him, his mouth at my throat, his body moving in mine until I nearly passed out from pleasure. That ache is deeper, sweeter. I shift my weight and feel the echo of him still owning my body even hours later.
The painting is nearly finished. It’s large, ambitious in ways that make something flutter low in my belly when I look at it too long. Abstract, layered, complex. Its palette is predominantlyserene, lots of creams and soft golds, translucent whites that catch the light. But underneath, there's depth. Darker glazes showing through the luminosity, shadows that make the light feel hard-won rather than easily given.
This is what peace looks like after surviving darkness.
I already texted Nick when I arrived. His response still warms me when I think of it. The promise of dinner that he’ll make for us, and of what will come after, hums beneath my skin like low current. A few more hours here, and then I’ll head back home to him.
Behind me, the soft click of Lita's pliers punctuates the studio's quiet. She's working on one of her wire sculptures today. I don’t have to look her way to picture her, bent over her scarred worktable with that focused furrow between her brows, her shocking neon-blue pixie cut catching the light. Across the room, Matt mutters something to himself, working through some problem in the portrait series he's been obsessing over for weeks.
Sharing this cramped studio space with my friends is one of my favorite parts of any day. Before I met them a couple of years ago, I had mostly painted alone, anywhere I could find a quiet place to set up my easel. Being around Lita and Matt has been a true boon to my creativity. Plus, they’re just fun to hang out with.
"Coffee break." Lita's voice cuts through my concentration. "Any takers?"
"I'm good," Matt says without looking up.
“When do I ever say no to coffee?” I set down my brush, flexing my fingers, and turn. She's already moving toward the espresso machine I bought for the studio six months ago. It’s a good one, because all three of us know coffee matters, and the sludge from the bodega down the street was slowly killing us.
"You're a saint, Lita."
She snorts. "Hardly." But she's already grinding beans, tamping grounds, pulling shots like a pro. The smell of fresh espresso blooms through the studio, cutting through linseed oil and the faint chemical bite of Matt's acrylics.
I stretch while I wait, rolling my neck, feeling vertebrae pop. The ache in my lower back is more pronounced now, likely from standing too long in one position. I press my thumb into the muscle and find the knot, working at it. Nick would do this better. Nick's hands know exactly where I carry tension, exactly how much pressure to use. The thought of him touching me there sends warmth spreading through my chest, down into my belly.
Maybe I’ll ask him for a proper massage tonight. Before or after he makes good on his promise to see that I “get my fill”. The thought of his flirty text reply this morning makes my lips curve into a private smile.
“Getting close?” Lita asks as she brings me the small cup, crema perfect on top.
“What?”
She nods toward my canvas. “Your painting. How’s it going?”
“Oh.” Am I blushing? I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic and bring the cup up to my mouth. The smell of the coffee is so intense, I pull back without taking a sip. “Did you use a different setting on this?”
She frowns. “No. Same as always. Why? Something wrong?”
I try again, taking a little taste while she watches. Maybe it’s just me. I shrug, then set the cup down on the side table at my work area. I turn my attention to the painting that's consumed me for weeks, the wedding gift Nick doesn't know about yet.
"It’s coming along, I think. One or two more sessions, maybe."
"It's beautiful, Ave." Lita's voice has gone soft, genuine. "Really. I love the movement of it. The underlying calm. Whatever you're trying to say, it comes through."
The words settle into me, warm and reassuring. She doesn't know what it's for, what it means. But she sees something true in it anyway.
"Thank you."
She leans against my supply table, casual and comfortable, her combat boots crossed at the ankle. The diamond stud in her nose winks as she tilts her head. "So. The countdown until you become Mrs. Baine is on, huh?"
Mrs. Baine.Heat flares in my belly at the words. Nick’s wife. I think of standing at the front of that church as I promise him forever. The anticipation is a physical thing. A tightening low in my core, the same feeling I get when Nick looks at me across a crowded room and I know exactly what he's thinking.
"Yep, three and a half weeks." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I can hardly believe it's so close."
"You ready?"
