A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, light and unguarded.
Then I pause.
“Who is Rose and Jack? And what is pegging?”
The reaction is immediate.
His mouth opens like I’ve just committed a crime against culture itself.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then he shakes his head slowly, like he’s deeply, personally disappointed in me.
“We’re fixing this,” he says firmly, pointing at me like it’s now a matter of urgency. “We are absolutely fixing this. I’m going to have to catch you up on movie knowledge—because this…this is unacceptable.” His dimples pop, his eyes sparkles, “As for pegging…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Trey
Main Attraction – Jeremy Renner
Istay exactly where she told me to. Which, for me, is already a feat of discipline bordering on the supernatural.
Yeah, real superpower, I just dissociated for a bit, thinking about everything and the Easter Bunny. Sera’s across the room, sketchbook balanced, pencils laid out. Her focus drops in immediately, like the world narrows down to graphite, paper, and whatever she sees when she looks at me.
I watch her the way she watches me.
It’s strange, being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. Not the kind I’m used to—the kind that measures, evaluates, wants something. This is different. Quiet. Intentional. Like she’s translating me instead of just looking at me.
If a life model has an erection, do they have to pop some Viagra and just stay full mast for hours…days?
Her head tilts slightly as she studies my face, and I feel it—every pass of her eyes like she’s mapping me in layers I didn’t know existed. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t second-guess. Just observes, then commits it to paper.
Her hand moves.
Quick, then slower. Then quick again.
Confidence in motion.
Okay, this is getting a little boring now…let’s think of song lyrics…definitely not that cursed baby page, where it looked like some motherfucker was squeezing a fuzzy bowling ball through a ham sandwich.
Fuck, its back…my poor baby… she is never going to sit the same. Makes me wonder if the movie Alien wasn’t that accurate, if a chest burster would actually just stretch out, nice and chill?
Bro. Stop this fucking chain of thought. Please. What the fuck. Mercy.
I lock in, appreciating the earnestness of her actions. I’ve seen people draw before. I’ve even sat for portraits once or twice, mostly for publicity shit I stopped caring about halfway through. But this isn’t that. There’s no performance in it. No polish. Just her, building me stroke by stroke like she’s pulling something out of me instead of copying what’s already there.
Her brow furrows in concentration, just slightly. She looks completely absorbed, completely gone from everything except this moment.
I notice the change in her.
The tension in her shoulders eases first—almost imperceptible, like her body finally decides it doesn’t need to hold itself so tightly anymore.
Her grip on the pencil softens but never loses control.
Her breathing slows.
She sinks deeper into it, into herself, into whatever place she goes when she creates.
