He shakes his head, like he genuinely cannot comprehend choosing chaos on purpose.
“What about the realistic stuff?” he asks. “Like… portraits?”
“Oh, I love photorealism,” I say instantly. “That’s what I’m painting right now. Photorealism is all about values. Light. Shadow. Getting the proportions exactly right. The hardest part is making it feel alive instead of flat.”
Jake’s gaze stays fixed on me, like I’m explaining some kind of secret code.
“And the brush matters,” I continue, warming up. “The paint matters. The surface matters. Even the way you breathe can affect your line if you’re doing detail work.”
His mouth twitches. “You breathe wrong and ruin a painting.”
“Basically, yes.”
“That would drive me insane.”
“It does,” I admit, laughing. “But in a good way.”
The rest of dinner unfolds like that. Easy conversation. Small jokes. Light teasing.
He tells me Petrov made them repeat a drill six times because Connor’s timing was off by “a fraction.”
I confess my tongue is still slightly numb from tasting the sauce too early.
“Good,” Jake says. “Maybe it’ll stop you from talking.”
I toss a napkin at him.
He catches it without even looking.
Show-off.
By the time our plates are empty, the tension in his shoulders has eased into something almost calm.
He leans back in his chair, studying me.
“Did you really have dinner ready and waiting?” he asks. “You didn’t even know when I’d be home.”
“Well, I thought about texting you,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you?”
I shrug lightly. “I didn’t know if I was allowed.”
His brow lifts. “Of course you’re allowed.” His tone firms. “There’ll be more things we need to talk about. And you shouldn’t hesitate to reach out if you need something. Don’t you agree?”
I grin at him. “I definitely agree. You are my husband, after all.”
He groans, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“While we’re at it,” he says carefully, “we should probably also talk about our living arrangement.”
My stomach flips.
That sounds… official.
I fold my arms loosely, trying not to look like I’m bracing for impact. “Okay.”
“I know you don’t want to move back in with your dad,” he continues. His voice is even, practical. “And I get it.”
