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“All of them?”

“Most.” He swallows. “The older ones.”

Paul sets another canvas against the wall. This one is unfinished, only a rough wash of color and the line of a jaw.

“I stopped working on them,” he says. “Almost ten years ago.”

“Why?”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “I don’t know. I just… it just left me, I guess.”

He’s watching the paintings, not me. Naked in the studio, surrounded by old love, he looks even more exposed.

“Renny was lucky,” I say.

Paul’s eyes cut to me, wet and startled.

I clear my throat. “To be looked at like that, I mean.”

He nods, holding a breath.

Then he shows me the other wall.

Fewer canvases. Newer.

My foot again, but different from the first one. Less couch. More movement.

Then my shoulder. The left one, unfortunate tattoo cut off at the edge, black ink disappearing into shadow.

A mouth that is definitely mine, even without the rest of my face to prove it.

“You did these in a week?”

Paul shifts beside me. “Some of them are barely paintings.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Yes,” he says.

I look at the mouth again.

Not sexy. Not not sexy.

He steps closer. I think he wants to touch my arm, but he holds back.

“The first was after the rooftop. Your foot.” His voice goes softer. “I wasn’t snooping or creeping on you or anything. They’re all from memory. Just… pieces I couldn’t stop seeing.”

Before the handjobs. The kiss. Before the hallway even.

Before I had any idea what to do with wanting him.

“No dicks?”

That’s right, Clint. When thoughts get too heavy, go for the groin.

Paul lets out a shocked little laugh. “No. That’s not what they’re about.”

He stands still beside me, like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.