My pulse stutters.
I look away first, but only because I have to. Because if I don’t, I’m going to forget we’re not alone. That this boy—this man—could potentially be “family.”
And that what I want is the furthest thing from allowed.
But God, I want to know what his hands would feel like on me if they weren’t holding tattoo needles. I want to know what his mouth would taste like if it stopped being so unreadable and finally gave something away.
I stab my salmon with more force than necessary.
His fingers find my thigh again. A slow pass. No higher, no deeper—just enough.
I sit still for the rest of dinner, quiet and burning, letting myself feel every stolen touch he gives me under the table. Pretending it’s nothing. Pretending I’m not unraveling one brush at a time.
And when Aidan flags down a passing server and says, “Would you mind snapping a quick photo of the family?”
—I almost choke.
The camera flash hits like a slap. Too bright, too sudden.
The light fades, but the performance clings to my skin like smoke—hollow, weightless, and nothing close to real.
12
COLE
Sunlight cuts across the balcony in long, slanted bands, painting the floorboards in gold and gray. I layer cobalt onto the canvas, dragging the brush through the waterline of a narrow two-lane road that stretches between mirrored lakes. It’s nearly finished—deceptively calm, deliberately still. But underneath the surface, the whole thing hums with tension.
Footsteps cross behind me.
She enters without a word, the sound of a tray settling onto the table cutting through the quiet. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s already moving past me—bare legs visible beneath one of my shirts, hair twisted into a knot, a few strands curling along her jaw like they belong there.
No performance, no nerves. She’s just here.
“For the record,” she says, her voice rough with sleep, “I don’t usually stalk people.”
“I didn’t mind,” I say, setting the brush down.
Her gaze meets mine for a second, then drops.
There’s a pause as she adjusts the mug in her hands. Her grip is a little too careful, like she’s holding more than just coffee.
“And another correction,” she adds, quieter. “I’m not trying to give my virginity away to just anyone. Not anymore.”
I study her for a moment. There’s no teasing in her voice. Just truth—stated plainly, like she’s trying to level the ground between us.
“Good to know,” I say. “You should know there are plenty of guys who’d take it.”
Color creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. She just presses her lips to the edge of the mug and takes a sip.
“I just want to feel what everyone claims to feel,” she says. “That’s all.”
There’s more beneath that, but she doesn’t offer it.
She reaches for a croissant, tears off a corner, and places it on my side of the tray. “Figured you’d skip breakfast again.”
I nod toward the empty chair across from me. “Sit.”
“I should finish a poem.”
