Silence drifted back in. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just heavy. I focused on the strokes of colour, and Bodhi seemed to be processing what I’d said.
Eventually, I asked, “What do you do? For work?”
My back was beginning to ache from how close I was leaning, so I finally sat back and arched my spine until it cracked, sighing in relief. The new distance let me take in my progress, and a smile tugged at my lips. Not half bad, but not quite finished.
“Okay, everyone,” Darren called out. “Fifteen more minutes, then you can grab some lunch.”
I turned back to Bodhi just in time to catch him scrunching his nose like a disgruntled housecat. It took me a second to realise why. He had an itch. There was no paint anywhere near his nose, but he didn’t know that, and instead of risking smudging my work, he’d resorted to making faces.
For some reason, the sight made warmth unfurl in my chest.
“Got an itch?” I asked. He nodded, so I reached out, pressing a fingertip to the tip of his nose. “Here?”
“A little to the left.”
I followed his instructions until he hummed softly. Then I curled my finger and scratched lightly.
“That better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The corner of his mouth lifted, just the smallest curl, and my breath caught.
Bodhi was smiling. Barely, but still. It was the first time I’d seen anything on his face that wasn’t indifference or mild annoyance. It softened him, making him look younger. Lighter, almost, like the sun had finally reached a part of him he usually kept tucked away.
And I’d put that look there.Me.
Right then, I decided I wanted to do it again. As often as I possibly could.
I wet the paintbrush again and added a touch of white to the tip. “Tell me,” I pressed. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a musician,” he said.
I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips. “So I was right about you being a tortured artist.”
His own smile grew. It was small, fleeting, but big enough that I had to bite down on a squeal. I didn’t draw attention to it, though. I didn’t want to scare it away.
“Something like that,” Bodhi murmured. “I’m in a band.”
“That’s cool. What do you play?”
“The piano,” he answered, glancing down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “But I’m the lead singer.”
I chuckled. “So instead of a notebook full of poetry, yours is full of lyrics.”
“Fuck off,” Bodhi huffed, and nudged his knee into mine.The contact sent a spark straight through me, buzzing under my skin like a live wire.
“Will you play for me sometime?” I asked, dipping back into the white paint. “There’s a piano in the lounge on the first floor.”
His blue eyes flicked up to mine. “Maybe.”
I nodded, because I knew “maybe” from him was better than outright refusal.
“What about you?” he asked as I dabbed a soft highlight above his brow. “What do you do?”
I paused, resting the end of the brush against my bottom lip. I wasn’t sure how much to share. But we were in rehab, where honesty seemed to be extremely important, and I wanted Bodhi to let me in. Which meant it was only fair I cracked myself open a little too.
“I was a ballet dancer,” I said quietly, brushing white along his cheekbone.
“Was?” His tone was gentle, but the real question hung in the air between us.
