“Are you freaking out?” she asked.
“A little,” he admitted. “Feels a lot like planning an op. Only this time, the worst possible outcome isn’t on the battlefield; it’s a foreclosure notice.”
She sat beside him and laced their fingers. “Hey. We went over the numbers three times with Jason. We’ll go over them again with the accountant. We’re not leaping blind.”
He glanced at her. “You’re not scared?”
“I’m terrified,” she said. “I’m just… more scared of going back to my tiny apartment and pretending I don’t know what this feels like. The building. The studio. You. So I’m choosing the fear that comes with possibility instead of the one that comes with being stuck.”
He stared at her for a long beat, something raw and grateful flickering in his eyes. “You keep doing that,” he said, “choosing hard things on purpose.”
“Trick I picked up,” she said lightly. “Grief had a lot of practice making choices for me. I’m trying to return the favor.”
He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles. “Have I mentioned that I’m proud of you?”
“Once or twice,” she said. “Keep it up. It’s starting to sink in.”
His mouth curved. “We’ve got a few hours before we have to show our faces at the team thing tonight,” he said. “Dinner at the tent, sponsor pictures, all that fun stuff. Any plans for the immediate future?”
She glanced at the sketchbook. Then at him. “Yeah,” she drawled. “I was thinking about starting the first piece for the Bryn series. While the building is still a skeleton in my head, I want to catch how it feels right now. And then later… I kind of want to lie in bed with my boyfriend and talk about absurd things like what color we’re painting the bathroom.”
He smiled. “I’m available for both those tasks.”
“I thought you might be.”
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.”
