Chapter 43
ELIJAH
It's been an hour and ten minutes since I learned I'd be posing practically nude for Sam's art class. Seventy minutes of standing here in nothing but my boxers—a small mercy Professor Harlow allowed.
Seventy minutes of feeling every pair of eyes in this room trace the contours of my body like I'm some kind of human buffet.
"Let's try something more dynamic," Professor Harlow says, breaking the silence. "Elijah, if you wouldn't mind taking the hockey stick now. Yes, that position—hold it slightly horizontal, like you're about to take a shot."
I adjust my stance, gripping the stick with both hands, lifting it to chest height.
I try to channel game-day intensity, hardening my expression into the fierce glare I reserve for rival teams in the final minutes of the third period. It's the expression I desperately need right now to mask the embarrassment burning beneath my skin. I'm not a shy guy—locker rooms killed that particular hang-up years ago—but there's something uniquely vulnerable about standing nearly naked in a silent classroom while people scrutinize every inch of you.
My eyes drift inevitably to Sam.
She's perched behind her easel. She keeps peeking over the top, those quick glances that she thinks I don't notice. Every time our eyes meet, her cheeks flush deeper. Right now, they're practically glowing, like she's sunburned.
It's not like this is the first time she's seen me without clothes. Far from it. But watching her struggle to maintain professional composure while her face tells an entirely different story—well, that's something I didn't expect to enjoy quite so much.
A sly smirk tugs at my lips as memories from Duluth flood my mind. The snow falling outside the cabin. The way she'd looked at me that night, cheeks just as crimson as they are now, when she caught sight of me standing there completely bare, every inch of me on display just before I pulled her into my arms and claimed her for the first time.
I shift my weight slightly, careful to maintain the pose. Sam chooses that exact moment to look up, and I catch her gaze traveling down my torso, lingering on my boxers before snapping back up to my face. Her eyes widen when she realizes I've caught her, and her face goes from pink to tomato red in seconds flat.
Christ, she's adorable when she's flustered.
My embarrassment evaporates, replaced by a surge of pride. Hockey has carved my body into something worth looking at—broad shoulders, defined chest, abs you could bounce quarters off. And judging by Sam's expression, she's not immune to it. Not even close.
I flex slightly, just enough to make the muscles in my arms stand out more prominently. Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Sam sees it. I know she does because she narrows her eyes at me before ducking behind her easel again.
My fucking thoughts claw their way back to Duluth, back to her. I remember how perfectly we fit together, how her body molded against mine like she was made for me. The way she moaned my name, over and over, begging for me to mark her, claim her, ruin her.
And I gave it to her—every goddamn inch, until she was screaming, trembling, begging for more even as her legs shook and her body gave out.
Fuck.
The memory hits me like a goddamn freight train, and I can feel my cock twitching in my thin-ass boxers, straining against the fabric like it's trying to punch its way out.
Shit.
This is the worst fucking time—standing in front of a classroom full of clueless brats, my dick hardening like a goddamn steel rod, all because I can't stop thinking about her. About our first night together.
I try to focus on anything else—the weight of the hockey stick in my hand, the sound of charcoals scratching paper, the hum of the air conditioner—but my goddamn eyes keep finding Sam. And every time they do, it's like I'm right back in that cabin, her body pinned beneath mine, her legs wrapped around my waist, her breath hot and desperate against my neck.
Think about something else, Elijah, I scold myself. Think about Coach's fucking suicide drills. Think about blocking that slapshot with your thigh. Think about the goddamn mystery meat in the dining hall.
But my brain's a filthy traitor, and instead, it conjures up Sam's fucking lips—how soft they were, how sweet they tasted, how they parted for me like she was starving for my tongue. My fingers itch to feel her again, to trace the curve of her waist, to feel the shiver that ran through her every time my lips brushed that spot just below her ear.
I want to pin her against the fucking wall, tear her clothes off, and fuck her until she forgets her own goddamn name.
I want to hear her scream, feel her nails dig into my back, taste her cum on my tongue—Fuck! I said SCARY thoughts, not happy thoughts!
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stare at a fixed point on the wall. But it's like trying not to think about a pink elephant—the harder I try to banish thoughts of Sam, the more vividly they appear.
This is what I get for being so desperate that my common sense took a vacation and I agreed to a nude drawing session. The things I do for Sam Westbrook.
Didn't you say love screws people up in the head? the smug little voice in my mind says. Well, congratulations, genius. Case. In. Point.
But I'd do it again in a heartbeat. As long as I get to be near her, to soak in her presence, to have those eyes on me again.
I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my spine. The room isn't hot, but anxiety is warming me from the inside out as I wage a silent battle with my own body. Because despite my best efforts, My dick is already half-hard, straining against my boxers like it's got a goddamn mind of its own.
Down, you fucking traitor, I mentally hiss, but my cock doesn't give a shit about my dignity. It's responding to the memory of Sam's touch like a Pavlovian experiment gone horribly wrong.
Think about that time you took a hockey stick to the nuts in freshman year. Think about Grandma's dentures in a glass. ANYTHING!
I'm actually considering the merits of just diving off this platform and crawling out of the room when the bell rings, signaling the end of class. The sound is so beautiful I almost weep with relief.
My shoulders start to drop as students step back from their easels, unclipping their papers from the drawing boards and gathering their pencils and charcoal. Freedom is so close I can taste it—until I notice Sam.
She just sits there, taking her sweet time.
Her eyes glued to me like she's got x-ray vision, staring right through my boxers and into my increasingly anxious thoughts. Her smirk blossoms into a full-blown Cheshire cat grin, like she's fully aware of the situation happening below my waist.
"Hold that pose, Elijah," she drawls, her voice a low, husky command, and damn it if I don't feel compelled to obey.
My cock throbs again, and I break into a cold sweat, squeezing my eyes shut. I'm trying to become one with this damn platform, standing still as a statue while mentally willing my dick to calm down. My chest heaves with each desperate breath, and I can feel a trickle of sweat rolling down my spine.
"Everything okay, Elijah?" Sam asks, her voice dripping with feigned concern. "I just need a few more minutes to capture..." she pauses, her eyes deliberately dropping to my boxers before meeting mine again, "...the essence."
I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes at her. "Just peachy," I growl.
"Sorry for the delay," she adds with a sugary smile. "I'm really focused on getting the... proportions right." She taps her charcoal against her lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know, I think I need to see that pose from another angle."
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Really?"
She nods, her grin widening. "Turn around, bend slightly at the waist... yes, like that. Perfect."
I turn, bending slightly, trying to discreetly adjust my stance to hide my semi. Sam hums thoughtfully, drawing out the torment. "Hmm, maybe just a little more to the left?"
I grind my teeth but comply. She's loving every minute of this. "How's this?" I grunt.
"Almost perfect," she says, her voice laced with amusement. "Just hold that pose for a teeny bit longer..."
Minutes tick by like hours. I'm sweating bullets, my muscles aching from the strain of holding this ridiculous pose. Sam continues to make tiny adjustments, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "You're doing great, Elijah. Really capturing the... essence of the pose."
I shoot her a glare over my shoulder. "Are you done yet?"
She tilts her head, her eyes meeting mine. "Not quite. But you look like you're really feeling the emotion of the moment. It's... inspiring."
I can feel my eyes pleading with her to end this torment. She sees it too, because her expression softens slightly. "Alright, Elijah. You can relax."
I straighten up, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Sam grins at me, clearly pleased with herself.
"Alright everyone," Professor Harlow says, clapping her hands together. "Great work today. Remember, this is part of your finals grade. You'll need to submit your finished piece by next week."
I remain frozen in place, waiting for her to dismiss me.
"You can choose any of the three poses we worked on today," she continues, "but your final piece needs to incorporate color and really capture the essence of our theme: sensuality in motion. I want to see work that feels alive—that captures not just the human form, but the energy and emotion within it."
The moment she nods at me, I practically sprint behind the changing screen in the corner. I pull on my jeans and t-shirt in record time, not even bothering with socks before jamming my feet into my sneakers. By the time I emerge, most of the students are filing out of the room, chattering about the assignment.
But Sam is still there, standing in front of her easel, charcoal hovering over the canvas as she frowns at her work. She's so absorbed she doesn't notice me approaching, her nose scrunched up in that way it gets when she's concentrating. She makes another stroke, then immediately erases it, sighing.
I step behind her, peering over her shoulder at the sketch. My jaw clenches when I see she hasn't drawn anything below my waist—not a single line. She really made me go through that prolonged pose just to torment me!
I stare at the back of her head, at those soft curls I've imagined running my fingers through, and I can't decide if I want to kiss her senseless or throw her over my shoulder and walk straight into the nearest cold shower.
I look at her sketch again. It's impressive—a rough but skillful rendering of my upper body, from head to waist. She's captured something in my expression I didn't know was there—a vulnerability beneath the forced fierceness.
"Damn, sweetheart," I say softly. "You're making me look good."
Sam lets out a sharp gasp, whirling around. Her charcoal clatters to the floor. When she sees it's me, she presses a hand to her chest.
"Jesus, Elijah! Don't sneak up on people like that."
I bend to retrieve her charcoal, using the opportunity to move closer as I hand it back. "Not sneaking. Just admiring the artist at work." I wink, and her eyes roll in response, though the flush hasn't left her cheeks.
"You're incredible, you know that?" I continue, nodding toward her canvas. "You've turned a simple drawing into something... I don't know, alive?"
"That would be a rare occurrence," she mutters, but there's a smile tugging at her lips as she begins cleaning up her supplies.
I lean against the easel, careful not to disturb it. "But I notice you've only done the top half. I'd be happy to work overtime if you need to finish the sketch. You know, a private session?"
"I don't need you to finish it," she says briskly, stacking her charcoal sticks. "I can finish the rest later. I have... a pretty good memory."
My mouth curves slowly.
"Oh sure," I say lightly. "You could draw it from memory."
"Don't flatter yourself," she mutters, refusing to look at me.
I lean a little closer, lowering my voice.
"But what if you accidentally misjudge certain... proportions?" I wiggle my eyebrows. "People might start getting the wrong idea about me. I have a reputation to maintain here, sweetheart."
I dip my head closer to her ear, my breath brushing her skin as she squirms.
"I'm just saying," I murmur, "for the sake of artistic accuracy, I could volunteer for a private overtime session. Strictly professional, of course. Accuracy matters in art, right? Representing the subject in his fullest... potential."
Her cheeks flare an even deeper shade of red.
"Not only do I not want to see your—" Her eyes betray her for a split second, darting down my body before snapping back up.
"My hot, gorgeous naked self?" I supply helpfully.
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment like she's trying to reboot her brain.
"Not only do I not want to see you naked again, but that would be cheating. Everyone else has to work from memory or reference books."
"No, it's not cheating,"
She narrows her eyes. "Oh really?"
"Yeah," I reply. "It's called girlfriend privileges, sweetheart."
"I... I... am not your girlfriend."
I grin. "Not yet."
Sam's mouth drops open, and for a long moment, she seems incapable of forming words. I can practically see her brain short-circuiting.
I savor her reaction, watching the emotions chase each other across her face—shock, disbelief, and then a flicker of something softer that makes my heart kick against my ribs.
Her mouth opens and closes. Her brows knit together in that adorably infuriated way. Finally, she blurts out, "Whatever," grabbing her portfolio and brushes before stalking toward the door where her friend Willow is waiting.
I don't follow. Instead, I watch her go, the way her hair bounces against her shoulders as she walks, how she whispers something to Willow that makes them both glance back at me.
I offer a small wave while Sam just shakes her head and pulls her friend out the door.
The room feels emptier without her in it. But unlike the last few days of her avoiding me, this emptiness feels temporary. Because I saw it in her eyes when I called her my girlfriend—the spark that's been missing since we got back from that perfect day in Duluth.
*****
SAM
It's Sunday, and for once the world doesn't feel like it's pressing down on my chest the moment I open my eyes.
I wake up late—almost eleven—blinking against the soft light spilling through the curtains of my studio apartment. For a few seconds I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what's different.
Then it hits me.
I feel... normal. Well—almost.
The heaviness that has been sitting in my bones for days isn't gone completely. My body still feels weaker than it should, like I'm running on a half-charged battery, and when I finally drag myself out of bed and glance at the mirror, my skin is still too pale, my face thinner than it used to be.
But the nausea isn't clawing at my stomach this morning. My head isn't spinning. The ache behind my eyes is dull instead of sharp.
For the first time in days, I don't feel like my body is actively trying to betray me.
Seriously... when was the last time I felt like this?
I can hardly remember.
For a moment—just a moment—I let myself think that maybe the treatment is working. Maybe the chemo is actually doing what it's supposed to do.
But the thought fades as quickly as it comes.
I know better than to cling to hope like that.
Dr. Wilcott warned me about this. Chemo doesn't move in straight lines. Some days the symptoms are brutal. Some days they ease up just enough to trick you into thinking you're getting better. Patients sometimes get a single day—maybe two—where they feel surprisingly normal before everything crashes again.
A small pocket of calm in the middle of a storm.
And today, apparently, is one of those days.
So I'm going to take advantage of it.
Before my body remembers it hates me.
I push myself up and head for the shower, letting the hot water run over my shoulders until the last traces of sleep disappear. By the time I step out and wrap myself in a towel, a little bit of color has returned to my skin.
I sit at my small vanity and carefully cover the hollowness beneath my eyes, brushing warmth into my cheeks to chase away the ghostly pallor staring back at me from the mirror. By the time I'm finished, I look almost like the version of myself everyone expects to see.
Healthy. Normal.
Afterward, I call my mom.
We talk about her visit this Wednesday, when she and the Penningtons will come for Caroline's winter showcase opening night. Everyone is excited about it—especially Zach. He's been talking about it nonstop.
He told me the other day he's bringing the whole team to support her. The entire hockey team. Which means Elijah will be there.
The thought presses against my chest like a bruise I keep accidentally touching.
After the call ends, I spend the rest of the afternoon working on my final project for figure drawing class.
The one with Elijah as the model.
I've been trying to finish it for days, but productivity hasn't exactly been my strong suit lately. Between the chemo, the shaking in my hands, and the way my brain refuses to stay focused whenever I even glance at the sketch, progress has been painfully slow.
Because every time I look at the drawing, my mind drifts back to him.
To that day in class.
To the way he stood on the platform like some infuriatingly beautiful sculpture that had decided to come to life.
And then there was the way he looked at me. Every time his eyes found mine, it felt like someone had struck a match somewhere deep in my chest, the heat spreading through my veins until my entire body felt like it was slowly catching fire.
Instead of working directly from the sketch I started in class, I place a fresh blank canvas on the easel positioned beside my worktable—the long white counter beneath the window where I keep all my supplies lined up in careful rows.
I settle onto the stool and stretch my arms out in front of me, rolling my shoulders back to loosen the stiffness there. My fingers crack softly when I flex them. I tilt my head from side to side until my neck pops.
Then I pick up my charcoal. My hand hovers over the canvas, hesitating. I'm supposed to be drawing Eli as he appeared in class but another image keeps intruding. Not Eli from last Thursday's figure drawing session.
No, what floods my mind is Eli in Duluth two weeks ago, standing before me in the soft lamplight of our cabin.
His body is a study in contradictions—hard planes and gentle curves, strength and vulnerability existing in the same skin. In my memory, his eyes hold mine as he removes his last piece of clothing, and the intensity of his gaze is like standing too close to a bonfire.
It burns through me, ignites something primal and desperate that I'd never felt before him.
If I were to paint him as "sensuality in motion," it wouldn't be his perfect form that I'd focus on, though God knows that body is like something sculpted by hands more divine than human. It would be the way he looked at me—hungry and reverent all at once, like I was both feast and sacrament.
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present.
I'm just about to make the first stroke when a knock at my door startles me. I frown, not expecting anyone. Caroline's at rehearsal all day, and Zach and the team are in Denver for a game. Their flight wasn't supposed to get back to Miami until late afternoon.
When I open the door, my heart performs a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest. Eli stands there, grinning like he's won something just by my opening the door.
"Hey, sweetheart," he purrs. "Miss me?"
Before I can answer, he strides past me into my studio, comfortable as if he belongs here, carrying takeout bags that he sets on the coffee table.
"How are you here?" I ask, my voice tighter than I intend. "Shouldn't you be in Denver until this afternoon?"
"Took an earlier flight," he says, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a Henley that clings to every muscle I've been trying not to think about. "Thought we could have brunch together. I knew if I texted, you'd say no, so..." He gestures to the food with a flourish.
"Elijah, seriously," I say, crossing my arms. "you can't just drop in unannounced. What if I wasn't here? Or I was busy?"
He grins, unfazed. " But you're here."
"Seriously, what are you doing here?"
"I already told you, I'm here so we can have brunch together. Also, I miss you."
"So?"
He arches an eyebrow. "So? That's it?"
"What do you expect me to say?"
"To say you miss me back."
"I don't."
"Ouch!" He clutches his chest and gasps. "That one hurt. If I slapped Band-Aids over every time you've wounded me, I'd be walking around with my heart in a full-on plaster cast."
I fight to keep my mouth from twitching, furrows my brows even tighter just to hide the smile threatening to break free, and huffs. "Go away, Elijah. Leave me alone. I don't have time for these ridiculous stunts you keep pulling just to get my attention."
His lips curl into a slow smirk.
"But sweetheart," he says lightly, "I'm just borrowing your own trick. Remember all the things you used to do to get my attention?" He tilts his head. "You didn't stop until you finally thawed my frozen heart."
He leans a little closer, "Just wait, one of these days, I'm going to thaw that heart of yours too."
"That will never happen."
"Funny— I said the same thing. And yet, here we are."
His eyes scan the room, landing on my workstation. His grin widens. "Looks like you're about to start your figure-drawing assignment. Then I came right on time." He takes a step closer to me. "But first, brunch. Then you can draw me."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "I'm feeling particularly magnificent today. Might as well immortalize the moment."
"I already told you yesterday, I don't need you to finish it," I say, trying to sound firm.
"And I told you I don't believe you." He walks around me in a slow circle. "Come on, Sam. You need a model. I'm a model. It's kismet."
"It's intrusive."
"It's helpful."
"It's unnecessary."
"It's inevitable." His eyes sparkle with mischief. "Face it, you're stuck with me today."
I open my mouth to argue further when Eli's attention is caught by something on my workbench. The lavender plant—his gift—sits in a patch of sunlight. The one I told him I threw away.
"Thought you said this was trash," he says, arching an eyebrow, his grin spreading wider.
I have no retort for that.
He walks toward me then, his playfulness fading into something softer, more dangerous. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, and the weight of them feels like an anchor I can't afford.
"When are you going to get tired of pushing me away, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low. "Because I'm telling you now, it's not going to work."
I drop my eyes, unable to meet his gaze. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"Harder for who?" he asks, his finger gently tilting my chin up. "Because I'm dying here."
The word 'dying' sends a jolt through me. He has no idea.
Elijah exhales, his eyes clouded with a sadness that cuts me deeper than anger would. "I'm sorry I can't quit you, even when you ask me to. I just can't do it." His thumb caresses my cheek. "Giving up on you when I've only just started to understand how deep my feelings go... it feels like giving up on happiness itself. I don't have the strength for that."
He presses his forehead to mine, and I inhale sharply at the contact. "I get it now," he whispers. "How hard it was for you each time I asked you to stop following me around, to stop messaging me, to stop liking me. I was so fucking blind."
My heart twists painfully in my chest.
"I'll give you space if that's what you need," he continues. "If you're overwhelmed with how things have changed between us. But only for a few days. Beyond that..." He shakes his head slightly, our foreheads still touching. "Beyond that, I can't. Not seeing you even for a day drives me insane. What have you done to me, woman?"
The vulnerability in his voice makes me want to confess everything—my sickness, my fear, my love.
Instead, I say nothing.
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead and pulls back. "But not today," he says, his voice firmer now. "Today, we have important things to do. Like helping you with your final project."
I sigh in resignation, too tired to fight both him and myself. "Fine," I say.
"But we eat first." he says.
After brunch, Eli positions himself in the center of my studio wearing only his boxers, striking the same pose from figure drawing class. The difference now is unmistakable—we're alone, and the intensity in his gaze as he watches me makes my charcoal tremble slightly against the canvas.
The silence between us grows heavy, charged with all the things we aren't saying. Every time he flashes that infuriating, sexy grin, I know I'm fighting a losing battle.
I drag my charcoal across the canvas, trying to focus on the curve of his shoulder rather than the curve of his smile.
"You keep biting your lip," Eli says, his voice low. "It's distracting."
"I'm concentrating," I mutter, not looking up. "And you're supposed to be still."
"I am still." His voice carries a smile. "Perfectly still. Just making conversation."
I glance up, immediately regretting it when our eyes lock. "Conversation isn't part of the deal."
"The deal was I model, you draw." He shifts minutely, muscles rippling. "Nobody said I couldn't talk."
"Fine," I concede, focusing intently on shading his collarbone. "Talk. Just don't move."
"That little crease between your eyebrows when you concentrate," his voice drops to a dangerous whisper, "it takes me right back to the night I made you come for the first time."
My charcoal snaps in half. "Elijah..."
"And when you look at me like that—" his voice drops to a growl that vibrates through me, "—all I can think about is bending you over that easel right now."
Heat floods between my thighs… "You need to stop talking like that."
"Then stop eye-fucking me."
"I'm not," I lie, my tongue darting across suddenly dry lips.
His eyes devour me as he adjusts himself in his boxers. "Sweetheart, your nipples have been hard since I stripped."
I force my eyes down to the canvas, pretending his filthy words aren't making me throb as I drag my charcoal across the page.
I try to remain professional, deliberately shifting my focus to the structure of his body the way my professor taught us—lines, balance, shadow, proportion. The strong angle of his shoulders. The steady tension in his arms as he holds the pose. The thick vein running down his forearm that makes me wonder what other veins would pulse under my tongue. The way the afternoon light spills through the window and catches along the ridges of muscle across his chest and stomach, drawing my eyes inevitably downward to the bulge straining against thin cotton.
Every time I glance up, my gaze collides with his, and the raw hunger in his eyes sends liquid heat pooling between my legs. He keeps looking at me like he wants to devour every inch of me, starting with my mouth and working his way down to where I'm aching most.
My pulse pounds between my legs.
I shift on the stool, thighs clenching against the throbbing ache, and accidentally let out a small, betraying gasp.
His knowing smile widens. "Need a break?"
God, he can probably smell how wet I am.
I force myself to look away, dragging my focus back to the sketch like I'm not seconds away from losing control. Like I'm not one wrong move away from doing something reckless—like crossing the room and climbing him like a damn tree—and forgetting why I shouldn't.
So I pretend. Pretend I'm unaffected. Pretend my pulse isn't out of control. When Eli notices the shift—when he realizes I'm deliberately shutting him out—his smirk slowly fades.
I think that's it, that I can finally put all my focus on my drawing. But a second later, he speaks.
"Do you know," he says, voice suddenly quiet, "lately I keep realizing how much time I wasted."
My hand pauses for the briefest second before I force it to move again.
"I used to find your messages so annoying," he murmurs. "All those texts, the calls, showing up at my games... waiting after practice like it was the most normal thing in the world."
My throat tightens.
The charcoal scratches softly across the paper as I shade another line.
"But now," he murmurs, "I'd give anything to have that again."
His gaze drops to the floor for a moment before returning to me. "To have you looking at me the way you used to."
The air in the studio feels suddenly heavier.
"You were always there," he continues, choosing each word. "Always cheering the loudest. Always smiling at me like I was the best thing in your world."
His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile, but there's no warmth in it.
I trace a new line on the canvas as he continues, voice catching on the edge. "And I just... took it for granted."
He inhales, a fragile sound. "I didn't realize what I was losing until you stopped."
My chest tightens so sharply I can almost hear it crack. Still, I let my gaze stay fixed on the shadow I'm blending, careful not to betray the tremor in my hand.
He offers a humorless laugh that rattles through the silent room. "And now look at me."
My hand trembles and I press harder, the charcoal burrowing into the canvas.
"I'm standing in here in nothing but my boxers," he says. "Pulling ridiculous stunts just to get five minutes of your attention."
His eyes find mine, earnest and wounded. "Just so I can see you. Just so you'd look at me again."
His confession hangs between us like a fragile sculpture, ready to shatter.
"And the worst part?" he continues softly. "I'd do it again. I'd do it every day if it meant I got to see you look at me the way you used to."
The charcoal line under my fingertips wavers.
"Did it feel like this for you?" he asks suddenly, his voice gentle but insistent. "When you were chasing me. Did it hurt like this, sweetheart?"
I swallow against the lump in my throat. Every instinct screams to look up and meet his gaze, but I force my eyes down, focusing on the faint curve of his ribs as I shade it. The motion is the most important thing in the world right now.
Because if I look, he'll see everything: how my chest feels like it's collapsing inward, how his confession cuts deeper than any blade, how that tiny crack in his voice reverberates through me.
So I keep drawing—silently—even though every word he's said is echoing through my chest like a bruise I can't stop touching.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." The words hang between us like shattered glass. "Every cruel thing I ever said to you—I'd take it all back if I could." His voice breaks. "If I could turn back time—if not at the beginning— then it would be that night at the cabin."
The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Why?"
"Because when I held you in my arms," he continues, "right before we fell asleep. That's when I realized I was falling for you." He exhales. "If I could really go back to that moment, I'd do it differently. I wouldn't wait until morning to tell you I wanted to be with you. Maybe then you wouldn't have been gone when I woke up."
My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. I grip my charcoal so tight my knuckles go white.
"You have no idea what that did to me," he says, voice raw. "Waking up to your empty space. It was like someone had ripped the universe in half and I was falling through the crack."
Damn it, Eli.
The word explodes in my head like a curse I can't say out loud.
My chest aches so badly it almost feels physical.
Why did he have to say that?
Why now?
For one terrifying moment, I feel like I might actually start crying.
Like I might drop the charcoal, stand up, and cross the room just to wrap my arms around him and make the pain in his voice disappear.
If he keeps talking like this, I won't last another minute.
But mercifully, he falls silent.
The quiet that follows gives me space to breathe.
To pretend that my heart isn't breaking open with every word he just said.
After that, neither of us says another word. The silence stretches for hours while I draw and he holds the pose.
Eli drifts behind me, the heat of him radiating against my back before he even touches me. My skin anticipates him. He rests his chin on my shoulder, his stubble grazing the sensitive spot where my neck meets my collarbone.
"Wow," he murmurs, lips so close to my ear that I feel each syllable vibrate through me. "You really captured my best assets." His chest presses against my spine, and I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. "Especially these," he adds, nuzzling into my hair, inhaling slowly.
I close my eyes, pulse throbbing everywhere—wrists, throat, between my legs. "Could you not—"
He hushes me with a soft laugh that I feel more than hear. "Relax. I'm just... appreciating the view." His arm slides around my waist, fingers splaying across my hip bone, thumb tracing small circles through the thin fabric of my sweatshirt. "Seriously, Sam. You really are amazing. You see every angle—like you're undressing me with your eyes."
My breath catches in my throat as heat pools low in my belly.
I want to tell him to back up, to give me space, but the words evaporate on my tongue. Because the truth is, I don't want space. I want the weight of him pressing me down.
My hand moves on its own, fingers threading through his hair, nails grazing his scalp. His smile falters, pupils dilating as he leans in, lips trailing fire from my shoulder to the pulse point below my ear. "I like being seen by you, sweetheart," he whispers, breath hot against my skin. "But I think I'd rather be touched."
My rational mind screams Stop!
But my body, my traitorous body, arches into his touch: I want his hands exploring every inch of me, his mouth claiming mine. All the things I told myself I couldn't have.
And in that heated moment, I realize I'm already far too consumed by desire to fight it.