I turned to find him watching me. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted gray sweater, his silver-streaked hair still damp from a shower.
"Please." I moved toward the kitchen island where a place had been set.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you. And thank you for the clothes. I hope it's not too much trouble, my car breaking down like that."
"Not at all. I enjoy having company. It's rare that I find someone worth sharing my space with."
The compliment sent a flush of pleasure through me that I tried to disguise by taking a sip of the coffee. It was strong and bitter, challenging to an unprepared palate.
Ezra watched my reaction with that slight curve of his lips that wasn't quite a smile. "Too strong?"
"No," I lied, taking another sip. "It's good. Just different from what I'm used to."
"The first taste of anything worthwhile is often challenging," he observed. "We're conditioned to prefer what's familiar, even when what's unfamiliar might be superior. Cream?"
The offer came after I'd already committed to drinking it black. "Please," I admitted.
He added cream to my coffee, then slid the mug back toward me. "Better to be honest about your preferences, Micah. There's no virtue in pretending to enjoy what you don't."
The correction made me feel childish. I took another sip. "It's perfect, thank you."
Ezra began preparing breakfast. "I was admiring your paintings," I said. "The technique is fascinating. What medium do you use for that textural effect?"
His hands paused over the cutting board. "Various organic materials. I find conventional pigments limiting. Too manufactured. They lack the authenticity of elements derived directly from nature."
"What kind of organic materials?"
He looked up, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. "That's something I might show you later, if you're interested. It requires a certain openness to unconventional approaches."
"I'd like that," I said, unable to look away from his steady gaze.
"How is your drawing coming along? The one you showed me yesterday."
"Still unfinished," I admitted. "I keep reaching a point where I want to destroy it completely, but something holds me back."
"The fear of completion. It's common among artists with real vision. Completion means revealing, not just to others but to yourself." He placed a plate before me.
The frittata was simple, yet elegant. Not unlike him.
"And you?” I asked, sliding my fork into the frittata. Cutting into such a beautiful thing felt wrong. “Do you ever fear what lives inside you?"
Ezra seated himself beside me rather than across, close enough that I could detect his scent. "I made peace with my nature long ago. That's the difference between us, Micah. You're still fighting what you are."
"My grandmother would say what I am is an abomination," I said finally.
"And you? What would you say?"
"I don't know anymore. For so long, I believed them. That I was broken, possessed, something to be fixed or exorcised. But lately, I've started to wonder if maybe they were wrong. If what they called sin was just... me."
"They broke something in you," Ezra said, his voice gentle yet firm. "Not your nature, but your relationship to it. They taught you to hate what makes you extraordinary." His hand moved to rest lightly on my forearm, sending a current of awareness through my body. "But what was broken can be restored, Micah. I can help you if you'll allow it."
I should have pulled away, remembered Pastor Morris's warnings about temptation. Instead, I remained still, craving his touch even as alarm bells sounded in my mind.
"How?" I whispered.
"By showing you who you truly are. Not through words, but through art, through expression." He withdrew his hand. "After we eat, perhaps we could spend some time in the studio beforedealing with your car. I'd like to show you a technique I think you'll find... illuminating."
