Page 8 of Stolen Moments

She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second I see something underneath the perfect student facade. Uncertainty. Maybe even doubt.

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe you should focus on Chemistry instead of psychoanalyzing me,” she snaps, and it makes me smile, because she looks cute right now.

“I can multitask.”

She almost smiles. Almost.

We spend the next hour actually working on molecular orbital theory, and I’m surprised to find that I’m starting to understand it. Priya’s good at teaching, patient, clear, willing to explain things multiple ways until the concept clicks.

But I’m also very aware of her. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she drums her fingers on the table when she’s waiting for me to answer a question. The way her eyes soften when I finally get something right.

“That’s time,” she says, checking her watch. “Same time next week?”

“Actually, I was thinking…” I close my textbook. “What if we changed up the location? The library’s kind of stuffy.”

“Where else would we study?”

“My studio. I have better lighting, more space, less people staring at us.”

“Your studio?” She asks in shock, and she leans back in her chair.

“I paint. Remember? Art major.”

She looks skeptical. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, Sharma. Live dangerously. Study somewhere that’s not the library.” I point around at all the books around us. “You might even find it better to be out of this space.”

“Fine. But we’re actually studying. Not just hanging out.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

She gathers her materials, and I watch her organize everything into her bag with that meticulous precision that’s so perfectly her.

“Jackson?” she says as she’s leaving.

“Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth… I think it’s cool that you paint.”

She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring after her with a stupid grin on my face.

Chapter 3

Priya

Jackson’s studio is not what I expected.

It’s in the old art building on the edge of campus, the one that used to be a warehouse before the university converted it. The space is large and open, with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and enormous windows that let in natural light.

And it’s filled with art.

Canvases are stacked against the walls, some finished, some in progress. Paint supplies are organized on industrial shelving. There’s a drafting table covered in sketches, a workbench with tattoo equipment, and in the corner, a large canvas on an easel that takes my breath away.

Bold strokes of color that somehow capture emotion more than exact features. She looks fierce and vulnerable simultaneously, caught in a moment of raw feeling.