“Hey,” a voice called from downstairs. “Are you planning on letting me in your secret upstairs club, or do I need special clearance?”
She smiled, wiping her hands on the rag draped over her shoulder. “Up here,” she called.
Boots thudded on the stairs. Hank appeared a moment later, one hand on the rail, the other carrying two takeout cups of coffee.
He’d shed his jacket somewhere, leaving him in a faded T-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp from a quick shower at the hotel. There was a smudge of something on his forearm, probably grease; she was starting to think it was a permanent feature.
“Delivery,” he said, holding out a cup. “Café Lila’s finest. She insisted I bring her regards and threatened bodily harm if you don’t come by for pie later.”
“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Bree said, taking it. “But I’m not going to argue with pie.”
He stepped beside her, looking around. “It’s starting to look like a real place up here,” he said. “Less haunted storage, more artist lair.”
“That’s the goal,” she said.
He turned his attention to the easels. His gaze landed first on Bryn’s canvas in the corner. He walked over, stopping just short of touching it.
“She’s almost here,” he said softly.
Bree exhaled. “Yeah,” she said. “I kept trying to make it perfect. Then I remembered that’s not the point.”
“What is?” he asked, still studying the painting.
“That she’s more than the worst thing that ever happened to her,” Bree said. “That she was a person who laughed and swore and hogged the blankets. Not just a sad story about her last days.”
“And this helps,” he said.
“It helps me,” she said. “I hope it helps other people too.”
He nodded, then turned, eyes catching on the second canvas.
When he realized what he was looking at, he stilled.
“Is that… me?” he asked, almost cautiously.
She felt suddenly shy, which was ridiculous. They’d shared beds, showers, a thousand moments more intimate than this. Yet something about showing him how she saw him made her palms sweat.
“Yeah,” she said. “It started as a way to keep from spiraling while you were out there. I wanted to catch the way you looked on the track, like it’s the one place your brain quiets down.”
He stepped closer, mug dangling forgotten from his fingers.
The painted version of him leaned into the corner, background streaked in color. She’d deepened the shadows around his helmet, caught the angle of his shoulders, the way his hands held the bars like they were both weapon and lifeline.
“It’s not exact,” she rushed on. “I took some liberties. The crowd’s just a suggestion, and I left off the sponsor logos because I didn’t want to think about contracts. But…”
“Bree,” he said quietly.
She shut up.
He set his coffee on the crate beside hers and reached out, hovering his hand over the edge of the frame like he wanted to touch it but didn’t quite dare.
“You made me look…” He shook his head, searching for the word. “Whole,” he said finally. “Like I’m not just running from something.”
“That’s because you’re not,” she said. “Not anymore.”
His jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on the painting, but his voice had that rough edge she’d learned meant something important was scraping against his ribs.
“I’ve seen a lot of photos of myself on bikes,” he said. “Video, slow-mo replays, all that. They always look like someone I used to know. Like I’m watching a stranger who happens to have my name.”
