Page 27 of For Pucking Ever

He tilts his head, amusement dancing in his eyes like he's enjoying my discomfort a little too much. "Sebastian, I've been pulling pieces from your studio since you were nineteen. I can spot a shift in subject matter from a mile away." His voice softens as he studies the canvas. "Same shoulders. Same mouth. Same tragic longing in every frame." He pauses, and I feel exposed in a way that makes me want to snatch the painting back. "You never paint people unless they've wrecked you."

I don't answer. He's not wrong.

He softens slightly, backing off. "I stopped by last night to grab the last two for the exhibit. It was late and I guess you were asleep. Which is unusual for you in the off season. Didn't go past the studio, but. . ." He gives me a look. "You have company."

I raise a brow, trying to keep my expression neutral even as something uncomfortable shifts beneath my ribs. "What gave it away?"

"The second coffee mug in the sink. The pill bottles on the counter with someone else's name on them.” Christian ticks off the items on his fingers, his voice matter-of-fact but his eyes watchful. "You're good at hiding, Bast, but I know what to look for. I've had years of practice."

I sigh, running a hand over my fade, feeling the familiar scratch against my palm. The studio lights suddenly seem too bright, too exposing. "It's temporary," I say, the words coming out clipped, defensive.

"Mmhmm." Christian's noncommittal hum conveys layers of skepticism I'm not ready to address.

"He's. . .recovering." My voice drops, thinking of Derrick asleep in my guest room this morning, facedown in the pillow, the line of his spine vulnerable in the early light. "I offered him a place to stay." The explanation feels inadequate even to me, stripping away all the complicated reasons, the pull I felt toward him from the first moment.

Christian doesn't bite. Doesn't dig. Just nods like he already knows there's more under the surface and trusts I'll give it up when I'm ready. It's this quality that makes him dangerous and essential in equal measure, his ability to wait me out.

He walks across the polished concrete floor to a canvas half-covered in kraft paper. The painting. The first one I painted of him weeks ago. The one I didn't mean to let him see. The one of Derrick, soft and quiet and furious in its honesty. My fingers twitch at my side with the impulse to step between Christian and the canvas, to shield it from view like I'm somehow protecting the man it depicts.

"You want this in the show?" Christian asks, already peeling back the paper with a reverence that makes me look away.

I should say no. I should tell him to stash it until I'm dead and buried. I should reclaim it entirely, take it home and add it to the stack of canvases that will never see daylight. The painting reveals too much. Not of Derrick. . .of me. Of what I see when I look at him.

Instead, I say, "If it fits," my voice distant even to my own ears. The surrender feels monumental, like letting go of a guardrail I've been gripping too tightly.

Christian smiles like he's won a long game, satisfaction lighting his features. "It does. And it'll be the centerpiece," he says with such certainty that I wonder if he's had this planned since the moment he first saw the painting sitting on the easel in my studio.

I roll my shoulders, tension pulsing just under the skin, radiating down my back in warning waves. "No names."

"Always. B. Ardent, only." He scribbles something on his tablet with practiced efficiency. The pseudonym feels less like armor these days, more like a thin veil that anyone could lift if they looked closely enough. "But you need to be careful, Bast."

I glance at him, brows raised, though I suspect I already know what's coming.

"Because whoever he is, he's already in your house. Something tells me he’s not an unknown," Christian says softly, his tone gentle in a way that makes the truth harder to deflect. "And if he's in your paintings, too? You're not going to be able to hide this part of yourself forever."

The words land with precision, finding the exact space between my ribs where fear and desire have been waging their silent war.

I look away. "I'm not ready."

"Then get ready." He pauses, meeting my gaze. "You can't half-exist forever."

The words hit like a punch to the sternum. I know he's right. I've built my life around locked doors and compartmentalized rooms but Derrick Shaw is in every one of them now and I don't think I want to shut the door anymore.

DERRICK

The first thing I notice after Bast leaves is the silence. Not the comfortable kind, the strange, echoey sort that makes you feel like you're squatting in someone else's life.

I wander the house barefoot, my toes curling against the cool hardwood, feeling like I've stumbled into a museum curated by a man I've realized I only half know. It's too clean, too orderly. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place. Even the throw pillows look like they'd judge me for sitting on them wrong.

The living room is all glass and steel and earthy tones, masculine but minimal. The back wall is mostly windows that open to a view of Lake Washington so stunning it feels fake, like someone hung up a billboard of paradise. There's a narrow dock stretching out from the yard, and a sleek boat bobbing gently at the end of it like a secret waiting to be used. The kind of boat my mom and I would point at on TV shows and joke about ‘when we win the lottery’.

I should just watch TV, maybe scroll through my phone. Normal stuff. Text my mom, check in on her but my attention keeps drifting back to the hallway, like there's a magnet pulling me toward it.

Specifically, to that door.

The one Bast hides behind for hours, emerging with flecks of paint on his hands that he thinks I don’t notice.

The one I've passed three times already under the very adult guise of ‘just stretching my legs’. My physical therapist would approve of all this aimless wandering.