What happened?
I lifted my free hand and touched my fingertips to his jaw, coaxing his head to the right. Goosebumps rose beneath my touch, racing down his neck and vanishing under his T-shirt.
“I couldn’t do it anymore,” I said softly. “I?—”
“Two minutes, everyone,” Darren called. “Iggy, remember to take a photo. You can use my phone, and I’ll print it for you in the office.”
I added one last speck of white, then lowered the brush into my lap, leaning back. “That’s a story for another day,” I said, smiling even though it didn’t quite reach my eyes.
Darren approached and handed me his phone before circling Bodhi like an art critic. I chewed my lip, waiting for theinevitable—for him to announce that it was crap and that I’d be condemned to a canvas next time.
“It looks great, Iggy.”
My head snapped towards him. Darren was smiling. Like, actually smiling.
“Really?”
He nodded. “I guess you’ve found your new medium.” Then he wandered away, muttering something about coming back for his phone.
I turned to Bodhi. He was watching me with... warmth. Soft, tender warmth. A kind I wasn’t used to. Usually, I was tolerated at best—too loud, too dramatic, too much. But there was none of that in his eyes.
Just . . . fondness.
It unravelled something in me.
“Ready to pose?” I asked, waving the phone at him.
Bodhi nodded. I opened the camera and angled him until the light hit just right. After taking a few photos, I showed him the screen. While he swiped through, I let myself admire what I’d painted: a branch filled with light pink and white cherry blossoms curling along his jawline and across his forehead, green leaves nestled between the petals.
A symbol of hope and new beginnings.
It had turned out better than I’d expected, and I’d even learned a little more about the man behind all the walls.
“What do you think?” I asked.
He looked up, eyes meeting mine. “You did good.”
The praise hit me like fireworks, bright, loud, and impossible to hide from. My cheeks heated instantly. Unsure what to say, and unwilling to blurt out a bashful thank you, I stood and dropped the paintbrush into the water cup before grabbing the palette.
“I’ll grab a towel or something so you can wipe your face.”
I started to retreat, but his fingers closed softly around my wrist. I froze. I didn’t want to turn around. His compliment had felt like he’d sliced me open, and after seeing his drawing of me earlier, so scarily accurate in its portrayal, I wasn’t sure I wanted him peering any deeper.
“Iggy,” he murmured.
His voice was low and warm, humming through the centre of my chest like gentle static, calming in a way I didn’t understand.
I turned back. “Yeah?” My voice came out raspier than I intended.
“Did you perform?” he asked. “When you did ballet.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I um... I loved it.”
“Why?”
I drew a slow breath.
“Because I finally felt seen.”
