Benji trails me to the community art center.
Jett’s already there, straddling his bike like a fucking noir novel come to life. He doesn’t even have to try. Hair tousled just right, jaw clenched like he chews gravel for breakfast, brooding like he’s been hired to make Delilah’s panties melt from fifty miles out.
I park next to them and just sit for a moment. Breathing.
You are the voice of reason. You are the licensed one. You are the adult in the room.
And all I can think about is the fact Jett bailed her out. Took her home. Probably gave her a fuck so good it scrubbed the jailstench out of her skin and left her raw and purring and covered in his fingerprints.
I want to drive the car into his kneecaps. I don’t. I park.
I sit still. Breathe. Repeat my mantra.
She is your patient.
She is your patient.
She is your…
I get out of the car still unsure which of these two bastards I want to throw a punch at more.
It would be easy to light a match and let them burn each other down. Benji wouldn’t start it, but he’d finish it. That man is a human battering ram wrapped in a smile. Could kill someone just trying to give them a hug.
Jett knows where to break bone to make a point. To make a warning.
Me? I know exactly what these hands can do.
And not one of those things belongs in a sketchbook tonight.
“Therapy, Rhys,” I say under my breath. “Not a bloodbath. Art. Healing. Soft lighting and charcoal nudes.”
Jett clocks us as we walk up. He drags a slow look over the two of us, then tips his chin at the building. “You better sign off on my therapy shit with a glowing fucking review.”
I huff. “I’m impressed you showed.”
Benji grins, big and warm and harmless. “I haven’t done anything like this since grade school.”
Jett side-eyes him. “What kind of fucked-up elementary school did you go to?”
I lift a brow. “We had finger painting in mine.”
“That’s what I meant,” Benji says and nudges Jett’s arm.
I tense.
Jett doesn’t hit him. Doesn’t snap. He actually lets out this low chuckle, like the rage melted into something less sharp.“Finger painting might’ve been more fun with nudity involved,” Jett says.
Benji lights up. “Can we make that a thing?”
“That is not a thing,” I say, jaw tight. “This is about expression. Observation. Emotional…”
“Perving on naked people at a safe distance,” Jett says. “Kinky, academic edging shit.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“We should add finger painting to the suggestion box if they have one,” Benji says, all bright-eyed chaos.
He’s disarming Jett without a single warning shot. Taking the edge off all our bullshit with some cupcake-scented sunshine.
