Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Liv
Nick Fury is a night owl, and according to the creaks of the sofa bed, so is my roommate. I’d heard him moving around before sunrise, and when I heard the click of the front door, I thought about getting up, too, but my body decided it needed another three hours of sleep.
When I finally shuffle into the kitchen, the cat’s sprawled across the counter, tail flicking in lazy arcs. Next to him is a folded piece of paper propped against the coffee machine.
Meet me at the art studio. 7 p.m. Jay.
A quiet pulse of energy runs through my veins, stirring something restless inside me.
I slide the note into my pocket and pour an iced tea, telling myself it’s not a big deal. Except it is. Because the idea of painting again, with him there, watching, is making my chest tight and my palms itch.
By the time I’m halfway through my first cup, I’ve already replayed the doorway moment from last night three times, and all I can think is how close I came to kissing him… and then I catch the time on the oven clock.
“Shit, I’m so gonna be late!”
By the time I’m in my first lecture, I’m no better. Dr. Moreno’s voice is drifting somewhere above me, breaking down the politics of art throughout history, and all I can think about is what might happen tonight.
Between classes, Daphne texts me about Friendsgiving, Hudson sends a meme of a turkey in a jersey in the new group chat, and I spend ten full minutes trying to decide if I should text Jay back about the note, but does that seem needy?
God, how am I this unsure of myself? I’ve never been this way before.
Confidence is my armor, it always has been, but now it’s gone and replaced by a flimsy mesh of crippling anxiety that doesn’t keep me safe at all.
By the time the last class of the day ends, I’ve got nothing useful written down in my notebook except one small doodle of a cat and 7 p.m. circled twice in the margin.
When I arrive at home, I nearly trip over a giant box dumped outside the front door. And when I say giant, I mean the-size-of-a-small-car giant. My bed and mattress, judging by the labels. Which weren’t supposed to arrive until next week.
“Perfect,” I mutter, crouching to try and tip it upright. It doesn’t budge. I wrap my arms around the side, bend my knees like every tutorial says, and attempt a heroic lift. The box practically laughs in my face, unmoving.
“Need a hand?”
The voice makes me jump, and I turn to see Finn jogging up the path, grinning at me. “I hear they’re letting any riffraff live here now,” he teases.
I practically fling myself at him. “Oh my god,” I rush, colliding into Finn. He steadies me with an arm around my waist and a familiar laugh, the same one I grew up hearing whenever he decided to charm his way out of trouble or maybe laugh at me and Daphne getting in trouble. The latter, for sure.
“Miss me that much?”
“Yes!” I say, squeezing tighter before I step back. “Do you know how weird it’s been, living here and not seeing you? You’re supposed to be part of the package deal. Me, Daphne, and you—when you weren’t busy chasing waves, anyway.”
His grin widens, boyish and a little smug. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” He tips his chin at the giant box abandoned at my feet. “Looks like I showed up just in time.”
It’s then that I notice, behind him, a taller man joins us, dark hair a little windswept, his expression gentle but still amused. Finn gestures between us. “Liv, this is Foxx. Foxx, this is Liv. She’s the new roommate upstairs. He’s my boyfriend.”
Foxx offers a smile, but it’s in response to the boyfriend comment, I can tell by the way his eyes light up. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, already embarrassed that our introduction involves me sweaty and hugging cardboard. “I don’t suppose either of you are feeling particularly charitable tonight?”
Finn claps his hands together. “We got you.”
Before I can offer to help, the two of them crouch, grip either end, and lift like it weighs nothing. I hurry ahead to hold the door open, feeling both grateful and useless.
“Which number again?” Foxx asks once we’re inside the main door.
“Apartment four,” I say.
“Good thing you’ve got top-tier moving services included in the neighborhood package,” Finn grins.
I snort. “Do I tip in cash or baked goods?”
“Baked goods,” he says instantly.
They wrestle the box around the landing, and by the time we get it inside Jay’s apartment, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Finn drops his end with a dramatic groan and flops onto the couch like he’s just carried the world on his back, while Foxx sets his side down neatly and straightens with an ease that makes Finn’s theatrics look even more ridiculous.
“You’re both life savers,” I say, joining Finn on the couch. “Seriously, thank you. I would’ve been out there all night trying to drag it inch by inch.”
Finn drops his head back, eyes closed, smug. “Don’t worry. That’s what family’s for.”
And just like that, the lump in my throat is back. Because he and Daphne have always felt like mine. “Please come over for dinner soon, both of you. Jay is a really amazing cook.”
Finn chuckles. “Does Jay know he’ll be cooking?”
“He always cooks.” I shrug, trying to sound casual, though the truth is I already rely on it more than I should. “I’m basically just the taste tester. He sets the rules here, and he wanted to cook.”
Foxx’s mouth tugs in the faintest smile, and he shares a look with Finn that I can’t quite pinpoint.
I laugh anyway because my Finn is here, and the sound feels lighter than it has in a while, filling the apartment until even Nick Fury pokes his head out of Jay’s bedroom to see what the fuss is about.
“Why is that cat wearing a bow tie?”
***
Finn and Foxx stay for coffee and kitten cuddles, admiring Nick Fury’s new bow tie collar, but I had to shoo them away because I suddenly realized it’s almost six and I need to freshen up.
It’s not a date, though, I remind myself as I look into my wardrobe for something comfortable but also a little… nicer than my sweats.
I settle on a crop top, sports bra, and my leggings; just in case I do paint, I don’t want to ruin jeans.
Over an hour later, after fiddling with my hair for too long, I’m pulling up outside the school building.
Considering my youthful days as a wildcard, I don’t know if I ever snuck into school after hours. Out of school during hours? Sure, playing hooky is the best, especially if it comes with an ice cream trip. But sneaking into school feels a lot like I’ve gone wrong somewhere.
I pause outside the door, expecting it to be locked, but when the handle gives beneath my fingers, a quiet click echoing down the empty hallway, my pulse jumps with the thrill of what might happen next.
As I step inside, the hallway curves high above me, paint peeling in places that no one’s gotten around to fixing; it’s lived-in rather than neglected. Somewhere, a cleaner’s vacuum hums faintly, a reminder that the world’s still moving even though this stretch of campus feels paused.
I’ve grown weirdly fond of this place in such a short time.
It smells like pencil shavings and coffee grounds, with an undertone of something sweet.
The windows are enormous, throwing in pale light that makes even the scuffed floors look intentional.
There’s always a bit of paint on the doorknobs, initials carved into the benches, evidence of people who couldn’t help but leave a mark.
Halfway down the corridor, a light glows under one of the doors. The closer I get, the more I can hear the shift of weight against a stool, the creak of wood. My heart does this inconvenient little leap. It’s the art I’m excited about. The art.
Sure, if that art is a six-foot-two man who’s excellent at being inconveniently perfect in almost every way.
I nudge the door open, and there he is. Jay, on the high stool, camera resting on his thigh. The warm, fading yellow light catches in his hair, making the ends of his black hair look golden.
His mouth tips into the faintest smile when he turns toward me. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo, closing the door behind me. My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room, so I move farther in, glancing around to survey the room he’s picked. It’s one of the smaller studios, from what I know, but it’s perfect.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he says, straightening.
My hands tuck into my jacket pockets. “My bed and mattress turned up, otherwise I would’ve been here sooner.”
Concern flickers over his features. “Did they deliver it right to our door?”
The fact that he just casually called his apartment ours doesn’t go unnoticed, but I try not to linger on it too much. “Finn and Foxx happened to be coming in as I got home, so they helped.”
That earns me a quiet laugh that rolls through the space, adding another layer of something burning between us.
“Good, well, we can build it this weekend.” He nods toward the easel in the corner, already set up with a fresh canvas, paints, and brushes.
“But right now, I thought maybe we could take it slow”—curse my mind for thinking of something horny right now—“or we could start with just a simple idea and sketching, unless you have something in mind?”
Oh, I have plenty in mind. Not much of it is art-related at this moment, though.
Despite my wayward thoughts trying to take over here, I take it all in, the setup, the big arched windows, and realize that I haven’t been in here yet, not this exact room.
The sun is setting, the sky spilling wishes and hopes in oranges and rusts that bleed into navy.
The glass catches the light and throws it back across the floor in fractured shapes, like the room itself is trying to hold onto the last scraps of the day.
Something stirs in me, a muscle memory I’d almost forgotten, begging to be let out.
The part that aches to be inspired by sunsets, by impossible color combinations, by the curve of shadows stretching long across wood.
The same part that finds meaning in small things—like a one-eyed kitten, proof that broken can still be beautiful.
“It’s… perfect,” I say, not sure if I mean the studio or the way he’s looking at me right now.
He moves closer, slow enough that I have time to notice every little detail.
There’s a smudge of graphite on his hand, which means he must’ve been drawing tonight, the faint crease in his shirt, the way his eyes catch the fading light.
“Then we’ll start here,” he says softly, picking up a brush and turning it over between his fingers before offering it to me.
The air between us tightens when I take it, my fingers brushing his just long enough to feel the zap of his touch. Staring at the blank canvas, I suddenly have that same surge of fear, and my grip tightens around the brush. “Wait, I don’t know if I can do this.”
His hand closes gently over mine, steadying it. His thumb moves in slow, easy strokes, back and forth, coaxing rather than pushing. “Get out of your head, Liv,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it settles right against my skin. “You can do this.”
The warmth of his breath is close enough that I swear I feel it travel along the curve of my shoulder and skim across my collarbone.
My body reacts before my brain catches up, a shiver sparking low and deep, my heartbeat kicking harder.
Something feels so safe about his hand on mine, and every single instinct in me is screaming to let him lead, guide me here.
The old Liv wouldn’t have thought twice, she’d be twirling in his arms and kissing him, but this feels more important to both of us.
I keep my eyes on the canvas, pretending that the anticipation of creating something again is the reason my pulse is racing.
Then he lets me go, and I’m bereft. “I’m right here,” he breathes, and those three words give me enough confidence that my hand dips the brush into a deep red, almost black in the jar.
I drag it across the canvas in harsh diagonal strokes, loading the bristles until the paint feels heavy.
Then I reach for a bright yellow, jamming it into the center and letting it bleed into the red until the middle of the canvas glows like it’s holding heat.
My wrist aches from the pressure, each movement harder than it needs to be, my breaths coming fast like I’m chasing something I can’t quite catch.
It’s not beautiful. It’s loud, uncomfortable, and ugly.
Jay says nothing at first, and somehow that makes me more aware of him because of the stillness beside me, but I can almost feel his eyes tracing the movement of my hand.
The one that’s laid out truths and lies and deceit and pain all onto a slice of canvas for him to see.
I tell myself I’m not painting for him, but it’s a lie.
Part of me wants him to see this mess and still stay exactly where he is.
I keep going until my arm slows on its own, and I’m left staring at the chaos I’ve made, knowing that all of this has been living inside of me, cursing me, stopping me, making me second-guess everything I do.
Dragging that darkness out hurts in a way that feels sharp and physical, but seeing it bleeding across the canvas is… freeing. A relief I didn’t even realize I’d been starving for.
I haven’t painted in years. Somewhere along the way, I lost the love of it, forgot how to enjoy it.
Then life got messy. My parents’ divorce, my mother chasing men around the globe, my father always too busy, so I ran off to college to disappear.
To hide. But Washington had nothing for me except more heartache.
This, though… this feels like a homecoming. And I think I might be allowed to want it all again.