Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Liv
I’m obsessed with a one-eyed cat, and he’s only been here a couple of hours.
He’s the perfect serotonin boost I needed.
I knew I was called into that shop for a reason.
And Jay has taken it better than I thought he would.
I know I should’ve talked to him about it first, but the impulse was so strong, I just acted on it.
It’s been a while since I did something like that, and it felt good, like I could see the old version of me somewhere deep inside still.
Flinging the fluffy pink feather in the air, the little fluff bundle dives for it and chomps it in his little jaws, fangs on display that melt me. “You de cutest wittle Fury kitty, huh?” I croon, dangling it again just to watch him do that adorable shoulder wiggle before the pounce.
But instead of launching at the feather, he bolts straight out of Jay’s room, tail high like he’s on a mission.
I groan and follow, bare feet padding down the short hall to the spare room.
My spare room. Or at least it will be once the bed and mattress get delivered next week and I stop living out of suitcases.
Nick slips through the crack in the door and vanishes into my propped-open suitcase. There’s a rustle. A squeak. And then the dull thud of something toppling inside.
“Hey, troublemaker. That is not for you.” I crouch, tugging the material open before he can suffocate himself in bubble wrap. He pops out with a startled meow, fur puffed, like I’m the one interrupting his discovery and not trying to save his ass.
My hand brushes something solid buried under a sweater I’d crammed in as makeshift packing, and I know what it is before I even pull it free. A rectangular navy case, corners worn, one zipper tooth missing, smudged with colors that don’t wash out.
Inside, my brushes are exactly where I left them. Bent, frayed, stiff with dried pigment. Years of no use has left them ruined, and something inside me doesn’t like that thought.
I used to know who I was when I held these. Not in some grand, tortured-artist way—just… more certain. Like if I couldn’t say something out loud, I could at least get it on the page.
Now they feel strange. Like a version of me I’m not sure I can trust anymore.
Because how do you go from being that girl—messy, inspired, but free—to someone who got so tangled in somebody else’s story she lost her own?
I close the case. Not because I don’t want to dive deeper. But because I do. And that might be worse. I want to paint. I want to be me again, I just don’t know how to get there. I’m not even sure I can.
When I look up, Nick’s already curled into the suitcase, nuzzled into my sweater, chin tucked to his paw like his work here is done.
“Okay, Fury. You win,” I murmur.
The front door opens and closes, and then Jay walks in, damp curls clinging to his forehead, shirt stuck to his chest in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.
He’s flushed from running, breathing shallow, and somehow looks even better like this.
My mind takes a mental screenshot of him unkept and disheveled because he’s always perfectly together, and I may never see him like this in any other capacity. Girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.
He pauses outside the door, then sees me and steps inside.
His skin shines just slightly with sweat—his arms, his throat, the space beneath his collarbone where the fabric dips low.
He smells like outside air and warm skin, mixed with the clean soap he always uses.
I think it’s eucalyptus or mint or something designed to ruin me on a molecular level.
“Hey,” he says, still catching his breath. “Mind if I use the shower?”
I shrug, casual. Or trying to be, when my mind thinks, want me to join you? My mouth says… “It’s your shower, Jay. Go for it.”
Nick lets out a little purr and stretches again. Jay glances down at him. “He likes your suitcase, then?”
He drags the shirt over his head while he’s talking to me, casually standing there covered in sweat and only his shorts… what in the thick torso is this?
Yeah, okay, I’ve seen a shirtless guy before. But none of them were six feet away in my soon-to-be bedroom, muscles shifting under tanned skin, dusting of hair trailing low, looking completely unbothered while I tried not to drool like a cartoon wolf.
Jay’s body isn’t showy. It’s not some gym thirst trap thing. He’s lean, solid, cut in ways that speak to effort, not ego. His chest is broad, his waist trim but thick at the same time, and when he runs a hand through his hair, his bicep flexes just enough to fry my brain.
It’s at that moment that I realize he’s waiting for a reply from me. “Oh yeah, he loves anything cozy.”
Jay looks down at the box in my lap. “What’s that?”
I move quickly, stuffing it into the case before he can get a better look. “Just old paint stuff. Fury found it.”
Jay’s eyes flick to the case again, but he doesn’t say anything.
“It’s really nothing,” I assure.
He hides his lips between his teeth and nods, eyes still fixated on the box. “Can I…” He looks at me and clears his throat as he moves closer. “Will you show me anyway?” For some bewitching moment, I find myself nodding, spellbound by muscles and sweat, apparently.
He opens the box, pulling out the sketches of landscapes, sunsets, mountains—my favorite things to paint.
“You’re good,” he says with a quiet rasp.
I nod again, not because I agree but because my throat’s not cooperating and my heart’s already doing too much.
“You should go to the studio, they have some incredible supplies there.” He doesn’t make any more moves to the bathroom, but he does pass me the sketches back, and when our fingers brush, I can’t stop my sharp inhale as his skin touches mine, especially when I’m sharing something I haven’t in a long time.
“I can… show you. I mean, we’d have to sneak me in.
But the head of the art department used to love me, so maybe we won’t be in too much trouble. ”
The sketchpad in my lap feels heavier all of a sudden.
So does the space between us. “I’m probably not any good, I haven’t painted since.
..” I can’t seem to finish that and say I haven’t properly painted since my parents divorced, since I gave up the internship in London because of things I thought I didn’t deserve after everything with Rhys.
I have a lot of regret over that, but at the time, it didn’t feel right to go.
He doesn’t push for more of an answer. That’s one of the things I appreciate about him: he never pushes.
Sometimes, just thinking about stepping into the studio knots something tight in my chest, like I’ll be found out for everything I’ve wasted, everything I threw away.
Or worse, what if I really have lost any and all talent I once had?
I used to believe there was a place for me in that world, but now I’m not sure I’d recognize myself there.
My voice is small when it comes out. “I’m not sure I’d live up to expectations anymore.”
His gaze deepens as though he’s searching for whatever fleeting thoughts were just inside my head before answering… “What if it’s about doing it because you want to? Not because there’s any expectations.”
I don’t have anything to say to that because there is still a part of me that wants to.
He leans his forearms on his knees, voice quieter now. “If painting makes you feel something, even for five minutes, that’s reason enough.”
“Painting always makes me feel something.”
And that’s what I’m not sure of. If I’m ready to feel it all again.
“Do you want to do it, Liv?”
The loaded question that seems to simultaneously slice through my defenses and have me hiding in plain sight.
I can’t deny there’s an old itch sparking in my hands even as the familiar doubt presses in.
I don’t know if I could handle the rush of it, the way painting always brings everything up with it—the good, the grief, the things I thought I’d buried.
I breathe out slowly, avoiding his gaze until I can manage to lift it again. “Maybe.”
“So, you’ll paint with me?”
His voice is so light and full of hope that I don’t think I could say no if I tried. My head nods tentatively.
“Good,” he says with a contented sigh. “The side door by the ceramics wing doesn’t always lock. You’d be surprised what people forget to fix.”
“Or we could use my key card?”
He smiles, and it’s crooked and devastating. “Here I thought you liked living on the edge.”
And just like that, I forget how to function again.
Because it’s not the smile, exactly—it’s the way he doesn’t hold back when he looks at me.
Like he’s seeing something I haven’t even figured out about myself yet.
He’s always had that vibe, like this isn’t his first time on Earth and he’s got tricks up his sleeve.
Well, the sleeve is figurative, because yes, he’s very much topless still. Sigh.
I blink once, try to play it cool. “Breaking and entering seems a little extreme for a paintbrush.”
He shrugs, so casual. “Art’s about risk.”
“It is…”
“I thought you wanted to take the risk, Olivia?”
My name tumbling so darkly from his lips lands like a fingerprint on my skin, making it ripple beneath an invisible touch.
Are we still talking about art? Do either of us even know anymore?
I could deflect. Make a joke. Pretend to be naive.
But the longer he stands there, still not moving, still waiting like this doesn’t have to be rushed, the harder it is to look away.
And the harder it is to lie to myself about the attraction I feel for him.
I felt it the night of the storm, and it’s remained imprinted somewhere in my body, creeping up every time we’re close.
My fingers trace the corner of the sketchpad like I’m grounding myself in something. Like graphite and torn paper are enough to keep me here, in this moment, with this boy who isn’t touching me but still feels too close, sees too much.
This should feel safe. I mean, he does, and I can’t really pinpoint what, but there’s something about him that tells me I don’t need to put on a front.
And maybe that’s what scares me most. My gut doesn’t know the difference between curiosity and danger anymore, and I don’t trust it not to misread this, too.
“If you’d rather we use your key card, we can,” he says, probably sensing my hesitation. His eyes are clear, and I know from the look on his face that he’s giving me an out. “Think about it.”
He slips away, and the bathroom door closes. A second later, the rattle of the tap, the low groan of old pipes adjusting, then the rush of water as the shower kicks on.
Making my way back into my temporary room with my box and sketchpad, I place them on the nightstand and walk toward the kitchen when I notice the steam starting to creep under the bathroom door, and it reminds me of the movies where the siren calls to the sailors, luring them with smoke and song.
.. The sound of the water is steady, and suddenly I’m aware of every little sound echoing into the hallway.
I’m definitely pretending not to be thinking about the naked man on the other side of the door.
There’s the occasional shift in pressure that makes the pipes click somewhere behind the wall.
Every now and then, there’s a change in the sound—gentle splashes, the dull slide of a bottle being picked up and set back down.
One short, muffled sigh that has me analyzing the silence between those movements.
I find myself listening closer, like I’m waiting for something else.
I know I shouldn’t be.
I should walk away, but my feet are rooted to the spot in the hallway, and I’m wired. Every nerve is on high alert.
Another sound. This one is deeper. Drawn out. Making it impossible to lie to myself anymore.
Is he—
Oh my god.
Is Jay getting off in the shower?
I close my eyes for a second, head tipped back against the wall, and try not to picture it. Try not to imagine water running down the same skin I just saw up close, warm and flushed, that made my pulse roar.
Heat prickles beneath my skin so fast it’s embarrassing. My stomach pulls tight, and now I feel everything too clearly… the warmth between my thighs, the pulse at the base of my spine, the realization that I’m not moving, doing absolutely nothing to stop myself from listening.
I shouldn’t be reacting to it. It’s just a noise.
A normal, human sound. But it’s not just anyone, it’s the one guy I know I shouldn’t have any interest in because he’s my lifeline right now.
Daphne can’t be right, I can’t have a crush on him.
Because wanting him feels reckless in a way I promised myself I was done with.
And I don’t know if I can survive breaking that promise again.
He doesn’t know I can hear. Doesn’t know I’m out here practically vibrating, tapping into something I was never meant to witness.
And then I hear it again… a groan, deeper this time. Pulled from somewhere lower, something that is unmistakably pleasure.
I blink hard, mouth dry, heart racing in a way that makes me feel unsteady.
Holy shit.
I’m going straight to hell for listening to my crush jerk off in the shower.