Instead, he dipped a finger into the paint and dragged a bold stroke across the bottom of the canvas.
“Hey!”
“Art is a collaborative act,” he said dryly.
“You just ruined that shadow.”
“It needed contrast.”
I looked up at him, ready to bite back, but his eyes were trained on the canvas. His jaw had softened. He wasn’t mocking me.
He was present.
He dipped his fingers into another color, blue this time and added a quick flick upward.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“No,” he admitted.
But he didn’t stop.
We painted like that for a while. Me leading. Him stubbornly adding chaotic touches.
And somehow, it worked.
Until his hand brushed mine.
I froze.
He didn’t pull away.
He looked down at our fingers, still tangled with streaks of paint. His thumb moved, just slightly, over the side of my hand.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks.
I looked away.
But he didn’t.
Then I felt it. his eyes on me, steady and unreadable.
“I...” I started, backing up.
But he reached out before I could go.
There was paint on my cheek. A long smear of black like a scar.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t tease.
He just stepped close, lifted his thumb, and wiped it off with stunning gentleness.
My breath caught.
Not because of the touch.
But because he didn’t let go.
