Page 97 of The Summer We Lie

"I'm sure." I place a hand on her shoulder briefly. "You're my favorite view." Then I lean back on my elbows, giving her space to work.

"Thank you," she says softly, opening her sketchbook.

"My pleasure."

She falls into a rhythm quickly, her pencil moving across the page with surprising confidence. After about twenty minutes, she breaks the comfortable silence between us.

"Okay, I have a rough outline. We can go if you want, and I can add the color at home," she offers, glancing back at me.

I sit up to look at her paper, impressed by how quickly she's captured the essence of the cave. "No, we can stay as long as it takes. I don't have any plans today. Do you?"

"No," she admits, "but I feel bad. It has to be boring."

"It's not," I assure her. "I just like being with you, so just do your thing and don't worry about me."

"Okay," she says, and opens her pouch, revealing an array of regular and colored pencils.

I rest my chin on her shoulder as she begins adding color to the paper. Her concentration is absolute, and I find myself mesmerized by the small movements of her hand, the way she bites her lip when focusing on a difficult section. Every once in a while, I press my lips to her shoulder, trailing kisses down to where it meets her arm, feeling her tremble slightly at the contact. Then I lay back down, giving her the space to create without distraction.

Time loses meaning as I watch clouds drift across the slice of sky visible through the cave entrance. The sound of waves gently lapping against the shore and her pencil scratching against paper creates a peaceful soundtrack.

"I'm done," she announces suddenly. I realize an hour or two must have passed, though I've completely lost track.

I sit up. "Let me see."

She hands me the book, and I take in every detail—the perfect capturing of light and shadow, the delicate colors she's chosen that somehow make the cave look even more magical than it does in reality.

"This is amazing," I say, genuinely impressed.

"Thanks," she says, turning around to face me fully.

"Can I?" I ask, motioning to the rest of the sketchbook, curious what other talents she's been hiding.

"Yeah," she agrees, and I flip through the pages, taking in one drawing after another. Landscapes, portraits, abstract designs—each reveals a different facet of her artistic skill.

"Wow... these are really good," I say, surprised by the depth and quality. "I didn't know you were this good."

I flip to the next page and freeze. The drawing is unmistakably me—standing in my kitchen wearing only sweatpants, muscles defined, face relaxed in a way I rarely see myself.

"No, don't look!" she cries, reaching for the book, but I hold it up out of her reach.

"Holy shit, is this me?" I ask, though there's no question. The detail is stunning.

She buries her head in her hands. "Yes," she groans, clearly embarrassed.

I pull the book back down, studying the drawing more carefully. The perspective, the shading, the attention to detail—it's remarkable. But what strikes me most is how she's seen me. There's something in the eyes she's drawn, something I barely recognize in myself.

"When did you do this?" I ask, genuinely curious.

She takes a deep breath and looks up at me. "You remember the night you caught me in the kitchen doing the dishes?" she asks hesitantly.

I think back to that night—it was her first or second night in my home. The night she'd made me a plate of food. Later when I came down for water, I found her washing dishes. Has she been struggling with her feelings for me as long as I've been fighting mine for her?

"I love it," I say softly, running my finger along the edge of the paper.

Chapter Forty-Two

Skye