Sylas broke the tension by pulling the giant, half-eaten chocolate cake with white icing from the fridge and slicing off an enormous portion. He shoved the plate into my hands. “Eat. You’re too skinny to be a hero. And take the rest home. Sugar is inspiring in the best of ways, kitten.”
That night,the cake box sat on my counter open, while I ate a forkful of rich buttercream. My gaze drifted to the painting. Skye was there, right now, trapped in his eternal sunset, the calm before the storm, probably never having tasted chocolate cake.
A wild and impulsive idea took root.
I abandoned the cake and opened the box of art supplies I’d retrieved from my parents. My hands trembled as I uncapped a tube of white and a tiny bit of burnt umber. With a detail brush, I leaned close to the canvas. There, on the distant tiny island where Skye and I spent most of our days, I painted a single, almost invisible detail: a perfect little slice of chocolate cake sitting on a rock.
Would it work? I studied the tiny slice a dozen ways before setting the paints aside and crawling into bed. If this worked, I’d need to replenish my paint supplies. Sleep would put me back into Skye’s world. Was this a way to bring my own to him? I closed my eyes and prayed the universe granted wishes.
I woke with familiar arms around me, the steady rhythm of Skye’s heart against my back. But today, a new, rich, sweet aroma wove through the salty air. My eyes flew open.
There, on the flat stone near our spot on the sand, sat the slice of cake. It was perfect, exactly as I’d painted it, down to the delicate swirls of buttercream. My heart leaped into my throat.
Skye followed my gaze. He pulled me closer, a low, protective growl rumbling in his chest. “What is that?” he murmured, his voice tight with wariness. “Where did it come from?”
“Me,” I whispered, heart pounding with hope as I twisted to face him. “I painted it.”
He stared at me, eyes wide with confusion and awe. “You… painted it? With mortal magic?”
“Something like that.” I took his hand, pulling him toward the rock. “It’s cake, a dessert.”
He hesitated, waiting as if it would leap up and devour me, but I broke off a small piece and brought it to my own lips. “See? Safe.”
It tasted like cake. Rich and sweet, decadent. I brought a bite to his lips. He watched me, his trust in me warring with centuries of instinct as I placed the morsel on his tongue.
His eyes widened, not in alarm, but in pure, unadulterated wonder. A sound of deep pleasure escaped him, something between a sigh and a hum. “What is this sorcery?” he breathed.
“It’s just cake,” I laughed, feeding him another bite. I’d forgotten to paint a fork, leaving my fingers covered in frosting and chocolate crumbs, but Skye caught my wrist and pulled me into a kiss. One not born of desperate longing, but of sweet, shared discovery. He tasted of chocolate and ocean, a combination that was uniquely, perfectly us. We fed each other pieces of cake between kisses, each bite dissolving into laughter and the slow, exploring warmth of our mouths.
When the last crumb was gone, I looked at the empty rock, then at the painting’s horizon, a world of possibilities exploding in my mind. Was this what Xavier meant by ‘be’? I could paint stuff into reality? Maybe I wasn’t just a visitor in Skye’s world anymore. I was a creator in it.
10
Time blurred into a strange duality.By day, the mortal world grew colder, twinkling lights and the cheerful, distant sounds of Christmas carols filling every shopping center. Each decoration felt like a taunt, a ticking clock counting down to… what? The end of the year? The end of my chance with Skye?
But by night, I lived in a perpetual, sun-drenched summer within the painting. My world was reduced to salt-kissed air and the man who held my heart. The cake had been a key, a proof of concept, but my self-doubt was a lock I couldn’t pick. A frantic search through my old art supplies had only yielded dried-out paints and brittle brushes, a pathetic arsenal for someone trying to rewrite reality. That night, we’d simply curled together on the beach, sharing the renewed cake, my head resting on Skye’s chest as I listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, trying to memorize it against the coming dawn.
The frustration of it followed me into the waking world. I listlessly wove through the supernatural market with Sylas, a bored shadow at my side, when I saw it: an art supply shop.
I hesitated, but hope bloomed in my chest. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said, pointing to the shop.
He quirked a sculpted brow, but followed me inside. I beelined for the clearance bin, taught from a young age not to waste expensive supplies on mediocre talent, and fished out a small pack of serviceable-but-cheap brushes. The rows of acrylic paints taunted me from the main aisle; the price per tube had tripled since I’d last bought any. A single container of cobalt blue now cost the same as a month’s worth of ramen.
I hovered between a tube of turquoise blue and shell green, holding them up. Which captured the exact stormy-sea hue of Skye’s eyes? Both were a shade too bright, too artificial. I’d need to mix them with something darker… but who could afford a full palette?
“There’s a box,” Sylas announced as he held up a lavish set of 56 colors, its price tag screaming triple digits.
“That’s… more than I need,” I said, my accountant’s soul recoiling. Or deserved. My pathetic skills didn’t warrant a full set.
He ignored me, tossing the paint set into a hand basket he’d procured from nowhere. “And you’ll need these.” He added a massive roll of brushes—an entire arsenal of filberts, rounds, and liners that probably cost more than my monthly electric bill.
“Sylas—”
“Do you even own an easel?” he interrupted, his gaze scanning the store before landing on a sturdy wooden folding model. “No. You don’t. I’d have seen it. Your apartment is the size of my closet.” He hefted the easel under his arm with a finality that sent my blood pressure spiking. “One for the office and one for home, yes?”
I blinked at the growing pile of supplies. “This is too much. I don’t need any of this.”
“Of course you do.” Sylas added a handful of glittering gel pen packs to the heap. “Xavier will be thrilled with the detailed records.”
