✧･Chapter 27 Youre An Idiot
After the kiss, Claire had pulled away breathless and rested her forehead against mine and we had stayed like that for a few minutes. Then she had pulled away and walked to her closet before coming back to me and heading me an oversized shirt and shorts.
She told me that we should go to sleep, to not rush anything else for the night and that she was exhausted. So, I had agreed, and changed and I stood there, not knowing what to do or where to go until she walked out of her bathroom, chuckling at me.
She pointed at her bed, and told me to get in, so I did. It was... awkward to say the least. There was this weird space between us, and I could tell that neither of us were falling asleep like that, but I was determined to keep it at her pace.
Until she had sighed loudly, shifting on the bed and moved closer to me and before I had known it, I felt her leg dropped against my hips and her head fell on my shoulder.
I didn't say anything and neither did she, and I don't even know when I had fallen asleep like that, with my mind racing and my heart pounding.
Then the sun spilling into the bedroom woke me up, making me groan softly as I lift my arm up to check the time on my watch, seeing that it was just after seven in the morning. Gross.
I then turn my head, expecting to see Claire somewhere but she wasn't there. Not in the bed, or in the room.
I sigh softly, letting myself just lay here in the bed, in her bed.
Maybe this is crazy. Maybe she woke up and realized that last night shouldn't have happened. Honestly, I wouldn't blame her if that was the reason she snuck out of her own bedroom before I woke up.
I let my eyes travel around her bedroom now that I could actually see with the sunlight in the room.
It was very... plain, which doesn't shock me at all considering she had just moved into this house not too long ago.
There's a huge mounted tv across from the bed, a dresser under it. A tall lamp in the corner, a-
What the hell?
Is that... no, it can't be.
I instantly sit up, pushing the cover off of me as I let my feet hit the ground before standing up and walking to the wall, to where a painting is.
The painting.
The first one I ever sold. The one that started everything.
The one I never found out who bought - just that they paid more than it was worth and tipped enough to make my hands shake when I saw the total.
I stare at it, my chest tightening. I remember exactly when the idea came to me.
Claire and I were at that coffee shop we used to go to all the time - back when things were easy, when we were just us. I'd been in a terrible mood, stuck in my own head because I needed one more piece for my first gallery show.
I wanted it to be different, something that didn't feel like everything else I'd done and nothing was working.
"Why are you so stressed? Your artwork is amazing."
Claire's voice echoes so clearly in my head it almost feels like she's standing behind me now. I can picture her perfectly - leaning back in her chair, coffee in hand, watching me like she always did.
I had sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. "Because I want at least one piece to be different. I just... don't know what to do. I've tried everything and none of it feels right."
She'd studied me for a second before saying, "Paint me."
I remember blinking at her, caught off guard until she broke into a grin and laughed, shaking her head.
"It's a joke, Mae, relax. But really, you should paint someone. Make it feel intimate. People love that stuff."
She hadn't realized what she'd done because the second she said it, something clicked.
After we left that day, I went straight home and started on this painting. The one right in front of me, the one I never saw again after it sold. The one I eventually stopped thinking about altogether.
My throat tightens as I take a slow step closer, my fingers hovering just inches from the canvas, like I'm not sure I'm allowed to touch it, because she had it, after all this time.
I stay in front of the painting for a while longer than I probably should. My mind keeps trying to catch up with what I'm seeing, like if I stare at it long enough it might rearrange itself into something that makes more sense.
But it doesn't. It's still my work. Still the exact brushwork I remember fighting through at two in the morning because I couldn't get the lighting right on her face.
My chest feels tight in a way I don't know how to name, so I force myself to breathe, stepping back slowly like the painting might disappear if I move too fast. My fingers drag through my hair as I turn away from it, still trying to process it.
I end up leaving her bedroom without really deciding to. One moment I'm standing there, and the next I'm in the hallway, quiet and unsure of where I'm supposed to be now that I've found something I didn't even know I lost.
The smell of coffee reaches me before I see her, and I follow it down the hall and stop just short of the kitchen.
Claire is there, still in what she slept in - an oversized shirt hanging loosely off her frame and soft shorts underneath, hair a little messy in a way she clearly hasn't bothered to fix yet.
She's standing at the counter with a laptop open in front of her, papers scattered beside it, and her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she talks quietly, already mid-work like the world hasn't slowed down around her at all.
Of course she's working.
She's focused, nodding slightly at whatever is being said on the other end of the call, one hand typing while the other steadies the phone. She doesn't notice me right away, and I just stand there for a second, watching her in a way that feels unfairly intimate for how normal she's acting.
Then her eyes flick up and they land on me.
For a moment she just pauses, still holding the call, still halfway in whatever conversation she's in. Her expression shifts, softening, then something unreadable passing through it as she takes me in standing there.
Without saying anything, she adjusts the phone slightly and mouths something to me. I can't hear her voice, but I can read it anyway.
Morning.
Like this is normal. Like I didn't just wake up alone, find a painting of mine in her bedroom, and had completely lost my ability to think straight.
She gives me a small, tired look, and then turns slightly back toward her call, still watching me out of the corner of her eye as if I might disappear if she looks away too long.
She steps back from the laptop, still mid-conversation, her voice low and controlled as she moves around the kitchen like she's done this a hundred times before. She grabs a mug without looking, pours coffee into it, and sets it down in front of me like it's automatic.
Then she crosses to the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing a bottle of creamer before handing it over.
"Yeah, okay- no, I heard you," she says into the phone, already sounding a little more irritated. "I'll get it over to you by the end of the day. Just-" she exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair, "-can I please drink my coffee in peace before I lose my mind?"
There's a pause as whoever's on the other end keeps talking, and Claire just closes her eyes for a second, nodding even though they can't see her. "Mmhm. Yep, okay. Bye."
She doesn't wait for much of a response before pulling the phone away and ending the call, setting it down on the counter with a quiet clink.
Only then does she look at me.
"Good morning, sunshine."
Her voice is lighter now, almost teasing, but it falters just slightly when she takes in the fact that I haven't moved. I'm still standing there, the creamer in my hand, just staring at her like I don't know where to start.
Her brows knit together a little. "Do you not use creamer anymore, or...?"
I don't even realize I'm gripping the bottle too tightly until my fingers loosen.
"Why do you have that painting?" The words come out before I can stop them.
Claire stills, and it's subtle, but I see it. The way her shoulders lock for half a second, the way her expression flickers before she smooths it out. She blinks at me, eyebrows lifting slightly.
"What?"
I set the creamer down on the counter a little too carefully, turning fully toward her now. "The one in your bedroom," I clarify, my voice steadier than I feel. "You weren't even at that gallery. How did you get it? Or even know about it?"
For a second, she just looks at me.
Then it clicks. I can see the exact moment she realizes what I'm talking about, and just as quickly, she looks away, her jaw tightening as she exhales softly through her nose.
"Helena bought it," she says after a beat, quieter now. "She gave it to me. Said she didn't like the idea of it ending up with someone else."
A short, disbelieving laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
"Helena," I repeat under my breath, shaking my head a little.
My eyes drift past Claire for a second, like I can still see it hanging there on the wall, like if I look hard enough, I'll understand what I'm supposed to do with this.
"You kept it?" I ask, softer this time, but we both already know the answer.
She doesn't respond right away, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and telling in a way words don't need to be. When she finally exhales, it's soft, almost reluctant, and she looks back at me with a small, careless shrug that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"I have a few of your paintings," she admits. "From over the years."
My brows pull together as I stare at her, trying to process that. "What?"
"I bought them," she clarifies, glancing away again. "Under a different name. They're in the guest rooms and my office." She says it like it's nothing, like that explanation should settle it.
It doesn't.
"I... why?" The question comes out quieter than I expect, my chest tightening around something I can't quite name.
She shrugs again, but this time it's smaller, less convincing. "It was the only piece of you I could keep to myself," she murmurs, like it's something she never meant to say out loud.
The words hit harder than I'm prepared for, landing somewhere deep in my chest and knocking the air out of me.
I have to swallow past it, my jaw tightening as it sinks in.
Even when I wasn't here, when we weren't talking, when everything between us had fallen apart - she still found a way to hold on to me.
"You weren't supposed to find out anyway," she adds quickly, her tone shifting, like she's trying to tuck the confession back in, to hide it before it can mean too much.
That almost hurts more.
"I'm not upset, Claire," I say gently.
She looks away again, eyes closing briefly, and I can see it, the way she folds in on herself, the quiet war she's fighting just to stand here and let me see any of this.
"I'm just... surprised. Really surprised."
I take a step toward her, then another, until I'm standing right in front of her. My hand lifts slowly, my fingers settling against her jaw, guiding her face back toward mine.
"Claire," I murmur, and her eyes open again, meeting mine, and I hear the faint hitch in her breath.
"Do you remember that day?" I ask softly.
Confusion flickers across her face, and I can't help the small smile that follows as my thumb brushes lightly over her cheek.
"We were at that coffee shop," I continue. "I was stressed out over my first show, couldn't figure out what to paint, and you told me to paint you. Then you laughed it off like you didn't mean it."
She huffs a quiet breath, rolling her eyes just a little before nodding. "Yeah, I remember."
"As soon as you said it, I knew," I say, my voice softening. "I went home that day and started that painting. The one in your room."
She watches me more carefully now. "Why me?"
I don't hesitate. "Because you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen," I say quietly, my thumb still tracing slow, absent patterns against her skin. "And I didn't know how else to hold on to that."
Claire goes quiet under my words.
Not just still, quiet in a way that feels like something in her just folded inward. Her eyes drop from mine, her shoulders tightening slightly like she didn't expect that, like she doesn't quite know what to do with it.
"You never used to say things like that," she murmurs, almost more to herself than to me.
There's no accusation in it. Just something small, something sad and my brows pull together slightly, but I don't interrupt her.
She lets out a breath, shaking her head as she looks off toward the counter instead of at me. "You barely said anything back then," she continues, quieter now. "Half the time I had no idea what you were thinking, and the other half I just... assumed I was wrong."
That lands heavier than anything else she's said.
"I didn't know," she adds, her voice tightening just a little. "If it meant anything to you. If I meant anything to you."
My chest tightens at that, but I don't rush to fill the space. I don't try to fix it with something rushed or too big. I just stay where I am, close enough for her to feel it, even if I'm not touching her now.
"It did," I say softly. "You did, and you do."
Claire lets out a small, uneven breath, like that answer both helps and doesn't at the same time. Her arms cross loosely over her chest again, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as she nods once, more to herself than to me.
Silence settles between us again, but this one feels different - less sharp and more fragile. Then she glances back at me, something more guarded slipping into her expression, like she's pulling herself back together piece by piece.
"This is a lot," she admits. "And we just-" she huffs a quiet breath, shaking her head. "We go too fast. We always have."
I watch her carefully, not interrupting, letting her get it out.
"So, we should take it slow," she says finally, the words coming out more certain now, even if there's still hesitation underneath. "Like, actually slow."
There's a beat where she studies my face, like she's bracing for me to push back, or joke, or turn it into something lighter than she means it to be.
I don't. Instead, I nod, slow and steady. "Okay."
That seems to catch her off guard more than anything else.
"Okay?" she repeats.
"Yeah," I say, my voice quieter now, but certain. "We take it slow."
Something in her expression softens at that, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly like she didn't realize how much she needed me to agree without a fight.
"Okay," she echoes again, softer this time.
Neither of us moves right away. We're still standing too close, still caught in something that feels bigger than what we just agreed to, but for the first time, it's not rushing ahead of us.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. Softer, steadier, like we've both taken a step back from the edge without completely walking away from it.
We're still close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her, close enough that if either of us moved even a little, there wouldn't be space left between us at all.
My eyes flick down to her mouth for just a second before I catch myself, dragging them back up to hers. There's the faintest shift in her expression, something almost amused, but she doesn't say anything. She just waits.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
I hesitate, my fingers flexing slightly at my side like I'm debating something with myself, like I'm standing at the edge of a line I'm not sure I'm allowed to cross anymore.
"We're... taking it slow," I murmur, more to myself than to her.
Her brow lifts just a fraction. "That was the agreement, yeah."
I let out a small breath, nodding once, like I'm confirming it to myself.
Then - quieter - I whisper, "can I kiss you?"
For half a second, she just stares at me. And then her face does something I haven't seen in years, something familiar and sharp and entirely Claire.
"You're an idiot," she says, almost automatically.
Before I can even process it, her hand comes up, catching lightly at my shirt as she pulls me the rest of the way in, closing the space I'd been too careful to cross.
And then she kisses me.