6. Finn #2
“Will you draw us again, this time in our team colors?” Taft asked, then slid over a box of colored pencils and an art pad, clearly prepared.
“You shouldn’t ask that,” Walker warned. “He’s off the clock?—”
“It’s okay,” I cut him off, reassuring him. “I love art.”
I glanced at Walker, and he immediately dropped his gaze. Where was confident Walker? What happened since last week?
I picked up a pencil and began sketching light, swift lines to capture the way Taft hunched in on himself, Arnaud’s exaggerated pout, Chip’s crooked smile, and Bob’s ever-present scowl.
The others drifted closer, crowding around the table, leaning in with interest, offering comments like we were all just killing time at a diner instead of sitting in mandatory team therapy.
“Make my hair cooler,” Arnaud joked, fluffing the already perfect wave that flopped artfully across his forehead.
“You wish,” Bob teased.
Arnaud didn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Bob. You’ve got two settings: scowl and rage. Maybe I can lend you a hair product or a personality.”
Bob snorted. “Don’t need product when your head’s already full of hot air.”
“Oh, please,” Arnaud shot back, still smiling, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Is this about earlier? You still mad because I made you look in touch with your feelings for five seconds?”
“Keep pushing, Arnaud,” Bob warned, his voice low, jaw working as if he was grinding down the edge of something sharper. “See how that works out for you.”
Arnaud leaned in, resting an elbow on the table. “I’m just saying, maybe if you stopped treating every conversation like a fistfight, someone might actually like you.”
“Better to be real than fake,” Bob snapped. “People see right through your charm. Hell, they probably see through you.”
The table went quiet. Even Taft froze mid-laugh, eyes wide.
I kept my pencil moving, pretending not to feel the air thicken between them, tension coiled like a spring.
And then Chip, bless him, mumbled, “Statistically, conflict during group art therapy results in a 27 percent decrease in perceived emotional safety. Just saying.”
There was a beat of silence.
Taft choked on a laugh.
Arnaud blinked, then pulled back, hands raised in mock surrender. “See? The science is against you, Bob.”
Bob grumbled something under his breath but said nothing.
Crisis averted. For now.
Walker stayed back, arms crossed, watching quietly. His gaze wasn’t on the paper but on me, eyes hooded as if lost in thought. The others drifted away, tired from the day’s class, but Walker remained.
“How do you want me to draw you?” I asked, hoping to coax him into something lighter, easier
Walker blinked, clearly caught off guard, eyes wide, when he realized it was just the two of us at the table. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Like… me, I guess.”
“Okay,” I said softly, but I didn’t begin the sketch immediately.
“You serious, though? Because I can draw you heroic like a Marvel poster or mysterious like one of those shadowy noir guys.” I paused, pretending to assess him with an exaggerated squint.
“Or, you know, super casual: hoodie, coffee cup, that whole moody vibe you’ve got going. ”
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile—and tension seemed to ease from his shoulders. “I guess… moody sounds about right.”
“Got it,” I said, grinning as I reached for a dark pencil. Then, I hesitated and swapped it for a brown one, which was the exact shade of Walker’s incredible eyes.
I started with the outline, sketching light and loose to capture the shape of his face, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to fully disappear.
I let my pencil soften when I reached his mouth, rounding the edges to suggest something gentler—the hint of a smile he rarely showed.
Then, I moved to his eyes, carefully layering delicate strokes with the cocoa pencil, shading just enough to reflect how his gaze seemed to hold too much: frustration, exhaustion, or something quieter and harder to name.
With a few strokes to capture his hair, I set the pencil down, suddenly nervous, and pushed it toward him.
He picked it up, and his frown was back. “Is this… how you see me?” Walker asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the page. “I don’t look moody.”
I huffed a soft laugh. “No,” I admitted. “You look a little sad with the pretty… but that’s okay.”
His eyes widened, startled, like I’d said something that knocked him off balance.
His gaze flicked away sharply, and for a second, I thought he might say something.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Whatever thought he was holding back, he swallowed it down and gave a stiff shrug instead. “Yeah… okay.”
I checked my watch. It’s not that I needed to be anywhere, but I had reviews to write for today and wanted to get to them while the session was still fresh in my head. Still, I lingered, feeling the weight of Walker’s presence beside me.
“You wanna go for a walk?” he asked, his voice lower than usual as if asking for company was unfamiliar. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight. “No pressure, but… it’s snowing and… ”
I glanced out the window. Snow? Wow, so it was. “Sure,” I said, hiding my surprise. “That sounds nice.”
His shoulders relaxed a little, and he gave a tight smile before stuffing his hands into his pockets.
We walked quietly. It was snowing lightly—more of a suggestion than actual snow—faint specks swirling in the air and clinging to our coats.
The wind cut sharp and bitter through the dark, slicing past the corners of the buildings and right into us.
The cold nipped at my cheeks and stung my ears, but somehow, walking beside Walker, it didn’t feel unpleasant.
Our steps fell into an easy rhythm, boots crunching against the thin dusting of snow gathering on the sidewalk.
“There’s a park I go to sometimes, just up here,” Walker said.
“Is there? I don’t know this area well.”
“Do you want to see?”
“Sounds good.”
We reached the park’s entrance beneath a wrought iron sign reading Darcy Arbor Park that hung over the gate, and followed a path that snaked between skeletal trees. Walker slowed, his breath curling in front of him like smoke.
“I like the art class… ” he started, then stopped. He swallowed hard and, then, resumed walking.
“I’m so pleased.”
He shot me a half-smile, albeit brief, almost hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“What does the art I make mean to you?”
“Mean?”
He stopped walking again, tugging me closer to the trunk of the nearest tree, shielding us from the wind. His fingers lingered on my sleeve a second longer than necessary before he let go.
“I choose pastels,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was unsure where the words were leading. “I like pink and lilac and… I don’t know, softer colors. Some people say that’s weird.” He paused, swallowing hard, his gaze fixed on the dark stretch of empty path ahead.
“My favorite color is purple,” I said.
“You can get away with purple,” he mused. “It’s strong, you know? But when I use the lighter colors… it feels gentle. Is that wrong?”
I smiled softly. “Art is never wrong, and color therapy is a thing, you know.”
“Yeah?” He let out a breath, almost like he’d been holding it in. “I don’t know… sometimes I think if I make things soft enough, I can forget all the… ” His words faltered again. He shook his head like he was frustrated with himself. “Forget it.”
“No,” I said quietly. “I get it. You want to create something safe.”
He looked at me then. Something fragile flickered behind his guarded expression. “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Something safe.”
We walked on, side by side, his arm brushing mine again. This time, neither of us pulled away.
By the time we made it back to my car, he was messaging someone to pick him up. I wasn’t going to cross a line and offer to drive him somewhere. I waved as I drove away, glancing back at him, seeing his hand lift and return the wave.
Next week couldn’t come soon enough.