To the painting.
She’s worked on it more.
The colors are richer now. The shadows deeper. The light in the windows warmer, more defined. The tiny details I didn’t even realize were missing before are there now. The reflection on the glass. The subtle imperfections in the hedges. The softness of evening settling around the structure.
It looks like my house.
I step closer without thinking.
She hears me then and turns her head, her expression shifting instantly from concentration to surprise.
“Oh,” she says, breathless. “You’re home.”
Her voice does something to me.
“Yeah,” I reply, my own voice rougher than I intend.
She straightens, pushing up from the mat and brushing her hands absently down her thighs.
My eyes betray me again.
Those leggings.
Fuck.
Professional, the voice inside my head shouts at me.
She notices me staring and her mouth curves faintly. “Like the view?” she asks innocently.
I glare at her. “Finish your stretch.”
She laughs softly, completely unbothered.
She steps off the mat and grabs a water bottle from the coffee table.
She stops a few feet away, studying me like she’s evaluating a painting. Her gaze drifts deliberately down my body and back up again.
“You look tense,” she says.
“Practice,” I reply. “Muscles are tight.”
She hums thoughtfully. “That must be it.”
Her lips twitch like she doesn’t believe me for a second.
She opens her water bottle slowly and lifts it to her mouth.
She doesn’t break eye contact.
Her head tilts back slightly as she takes a drink, her throat moving in a smooth, controlled swallow. The line of her neck stretches, exposed and unguarded.
My hands curl at my sides.
She swallows again.
Slower this time.
When she lowers the bottle, her tongue flicks out briefly, catching a stray drop at the corner of her mouth.
