She stood and opened the sketchbook, flipping to a fresh page. The pencil felt familiar between her fingers. Her heart kicked, not with the sharp panic that had become her normal companion, but with something steadier.
“Do you want me out of your hair while you draw?” he asked.
“I want you right there,” she said, nodding at the bed. “You can pretend to look at budget spreadsheets while I pretend not to be staring at your forearms every five minutes.”
“That’s a fair trade,” he said.
He picked up the folder and stretched out on the bed, back against the headboard, ankles crossed. The sight of him there, utterly at home, tightened something sweet in her chest.
She sat at the table and began to sketch.
The first lines were hesitant. The outline of a boot. A chipped mug. A section of wood floor with sunlight pouring over it. Not exact replicas of Bryn’s things, but echoes. Memories translated into shapes.
Hank’s low voice drifted over as he muttered to himself about square footage and estimated labor costs. It was oddly soothing, like the distant hum of a motor.
After a while, he set the papers aside. “You’re frowning,” he said.
“I’m thinking,” she replied without looking up.
“About?”
“How to make people feel like they know her,” she said. “Without ever seeing her face.”
“You already know how,” he said. “That’s what you did with those industrial waterfront pieces.”
She glanced back at him. “You saw those for all of ten minutes on my phone.”
“Long enough,” he said. “They made me feel things I didn’t want to admit to in public. This is going to do the same.”
Her chest squeezed. “You keep having more faith in me than I have in myself.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “I spent a lot of years betting on people’s potential. I’m not about to stop with you.”
She let the pencil still. “Come here,” she said.
He obeyed without question, setting the papers aside and crossing to her. She stood, tipped her head back, and kissed him.
Whatever patience they’d shown at the studio, they dropped it now.
He slid his hands to her hips, pulling her in; the contact sent a rush of heat through her. She opened to him, tasting coffee and something purely Hank.
“We should pace ourselves,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Why?” she asked. “I like this pace.”
He laughed softly, resigned and pleased. “Fair point.”
They moved together without spoken coordination, hands finding buttons and hems. The bed caught them when they toppled back; there was a lot of laughing and getting tangled in the comforter before it shifted into something slower.
Hank took his time; he always did. As if he were memorizing, mapping her with his hands, his mouth. He checked in with small touches and the way he watched her face, looking for every flicker of pleasure, every shadow of doubt.
She let herself be seen. That was the true leap, not the warehouse, not the business plan, but this. The way she let him touch the parts of her grief that still felt raw and jagged, even as he worshipped everything else.
When she came apart around him, it wasn’t fireworks and fanfare. It was a slow, deep wave that rolled through her, leaving her boneless and full. He followed with a quiet curse, burying his face in her neck, his body shuddering.
For a long time afterward, they lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, breathing hard. The late afternoon light slanted across the floor, edging toward evening.
“If this is what post-race weekends look like now,” he said eventually, voice rough, “I’m never retiring.”
