“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.”
He swallowed.
“This feels like me,” he said. “The me you see. I didn’t know how badly I wanted to know what that looked like.”
Her chest pulled tight. “I could do another one,” she said, half joking. “Something less dramatic. You on a stool in the shop, yelling at Brian about torque specs.”
“First of all, I don’t yell,” he said. “I passionately discuss.” He glanced at her. “Second, this is enough. More than.”
She stepped closer, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
“Good,” she said. “Because I planned on hanging this somewhere you can’t ignore it.”
“Like where?” he asked.
She considered. “House hallway,” she said. “Top of the stairs. So every time you leave, you remember who you are. And every time you come home, you remember what you’re walking back to.”
His breath hitched. He turned from the painting to her, really looking now.
“You want me in your hallway?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already got you on my mortgage,” she said. “Kind of hard to walk that back.”
Something in his face softened, then set. Resolve, sure as any line he’d taken at ninety miles an hour.
He took a step back, just enough space to move. His hand went into his jeans pocket.
