His gaze flicks to me.
“I took a picture,” I admit. “Yesterday.”
Jake’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you paint it outside?”
I let out a small breath, relieved he’s asking practical questions instead of telling me it’s terrible. “The light changes too fast. Shadowsshift. Colors move. If you’re trying to capture one specific moment, a photo helps freeze it.”
He looks at me like I just explained quantum physics.
“You make it sound… technical,” he says.
“It is,” I reply. “Art is emotional, but it’s also precise. It’s values. Angles. Ratios. It’s almost math.”
His gaze drifts back to the canvas.
“You’re good,” he says quietly.
I blink.
“Like,” he adds, almost grudgingly, “really good.”
He keeps staring at it, like he’s seeing his own house through someone else’s eyes for the first time.
“You could sell these,” he says.
I swallow. “I’m trying. It’s just not easy without connections.” I hesitate. “And my dad doesn’t exactly think art qualifies as a real job. To him it’s… a hobby.”
Jake’s head turns slowly toward me.
His eyes narrow, not at me. At the idea.
“That’s bullshit,” he says flatly.
A startled, slightly watery laugh escapes me. “I know.”
He steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. The space between us disappears until I can feel the heat radiating off him.
His gaze shifts to my face.
Then his thumb lifts, brushing lightly along the side of my neck.
I go completely still.
He drags his thumb once, slow and careful. When he pulls it back, there’s a faint smear of paint on his skin.
I hadn’t even noticed it was there.
He studies his thumb for a second, like the softness of the gesture caught him off guard.
Then he drops his hand abruptly, like he’s crossed a line he didn’t mean to.
Jake clears his throat. “It’s… good,” he says again, voice rougher now. “It’ll look good over the mantel.”
My heart stumbles.
“Yeah?” I manage.
He nods once, eyes returning to the painting, like it’s safer to look at that than at me.
