Chapter 8
Lilah
Tuesday morning, Marcus's tech friends crack the security footage.
We're in his dorm when he gets the call. I watch his expression change from neutral to satisfied.
"You're sure?" He listens intently. "Perfect. Send me everything and invoice the Legacy Council for your services."
He hangs up and turns to me with a smile that's almost predatory.
"We got her."
"Chelsea?"
"Clear footage of her entering the gallery at 11:47 PM. Leaving at 1:23 AM. Carrying a bag of tools. It's irrefutable."
"Oh my god." I sit down hard on his bed. "We actually got her."
"I'm taking this to campus security today. They'll open an investigation. She'll face disciplinary action, possibly criminal charges." He sits next to me. "Your show is safe. Even if we don't finish all the pieces, the university will make accommodations given the circumstances."
"I don't want accommodations. I want to finish.”
"Then we finish." He pulls out his revised schedule. "We have four days. Six pieces.”
"You really think we can do it?"
"We've done everything else. Why stop now?"
So we don't stop. We work around the clock, Marcus managing logistics while I create. He orders food. Organizes supplies. Keeps me caffeinated and focused.
By Thursday evening, we're down to two pieces. An installation and one final painting.
"I can't see anymore," I admit around midnight. "Everything's blurring together."
In this quiet moment, with dawn breaking through the windows or darkness wrapped around us like a blanket, the world narrows to just this. Just us. Everything else—all the complications, all the questions—fades to background noise.
"We should stop for the night."
"We can't stop. The show opens Saturday—"
"And you'll be useless if you're exhausted. Come on." He pulls me away from the canvas. "Bed. Now."
"Your bed or mine?"
"Mine. It's closer and you're staying with me tonight."
"Bossy," she jokes.
"Practical, also concerned about you falling asleep standing up."
We walk to his dorm. His roommate is gone for the weekend, conveniently so we have privacy.
"Shower first," Marcus insists. "You have paint in your hair."
"You're covered in charcoal dust."
"Good reason to shower together."
I laugh, exhausted and giddy and so in love with this man it hurts.
The shower is sweet and innocent and very much not innocent when Marcus pins me against the tile and kisses me like he's been dying to do it for hours.
"We should—" I start.
"Stop thinking." His hands move over my body. "Just feel. Isn't that what you keep telling me?"
"Yes. But we're tired."
"I'm not that tired." He drops to his knees. "Tell me to stop and I'll stop."
I don't tell him to stop.
Later, wrapped in his sheets with him solid beside me, I feel something click into place. Like all the chaos of the past two weeks was leading here. To this moment. This person.
"I'm scared," I admit in the darkness.
"Of what?"
"That is too good. That I'll mess it up. That you'll realize I'm too much work and leave like everyone else."
"I'm not everyone else." He pulls me closer. "And you're not too much of anything. You're exactly right. For me. For this. For everything."
"Promise?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep. But I can promise I'll try. Every day. To be what you need. Even when it's messy. Especially when it's messy."
"That's all I need. Someone who stays."
"Then I'm staying. For as long as you'll have me."
We fall asleep tangled together, and for the first time in weeks, I don't dream about destroyed art or sabotage or failure.
I dream about possibility. About a future that's chaotic and imperfect and absolutely perfect.