Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Trey
Main Attraction – Jeremy Renner
Istay exactly where she told me to. Which, for me, is already a feat of discipline bordering on the supernatural.
Yeah, real superpower, I just dissociated for a bit, thinking about everything and the Easter Bunny. Sera’s across the room, sketchbook balanced, pencils laid out. Her focus drops in immediately, like the world narrows down to graphite, paper, and whatever she sees when she looks at me.
I watch her the way she watches me.
It’s strange, being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. Not the kind I’m used to—the kind that measures, evaluates, wants something. This is different. Quiet. Intentional. Like she’s translating me instead of just looking at me.
If a life model has an erection, do they have to pop some Viagra and just stay full mast for hours…days?
Her head tilts slightly as she studies my face, and I feel it—every pass of her eyes like she’s mapping me in layers I didn’t know existed. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t second-guess. Just observes, then commits it to paper.
Her hand moves.
Quick, then slower. Then quick again.
Confidence in motion.
Okay, this is getting a little boring now…let’s think of song lyrics…definitely not that cursed baby page, where it looked like some motherfucker was squeezing a fuzzy bowling ball through a ham sandwich.
Fuck, its back…my poor baby… she is never going to sit the same. Makes me wonder if the movie Alien wasn’t that accurate, if a chest burster would actually just stretch out, nice and chill?
Bro. Stop this fucking chain of thought. Please. What the fuck. Mercy.
I lock in, appreciating the earnestness of her actions.
I’ve seen people draw before. I’ve even sat for portraits once or twice, mostly for publicity shit I stopped caring about halfway through.
But this isn’t that. There’s no performance in it.
No polish. Just her, building me stroke by stroke like she’s pulling something out of me instead of copying what’s already there.
Her brow furrows in concentration, just slightly. She looks completely absorbed, completely gone from everything except this moment.
I notice the change in her.
The tension in her shoulders eases first—almost imperceptible, like her body finally decides it doesn’t need to hold itself so tightly anymore.
Her grip on the pencil softens but never loses control.
Her breathing slows.
She sinks deeper into it, into herself, into whatever place she goes when she creates.
It hits me, unexpectedly hard, that this is what she does when she feels safe enough not to protect herself from the world.
She draws me.
Of all things.
Her eyes lift briefly to meet mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t. There’s something in the exchange that feels too honest to break.
Then she looks back down again, and I sense it—the way she’s capturing not just my face, but something underneath it. Something I don’t usually let anyone see, let alone sit still long enough to be recorded.
I should joke. I should move. I should do anything other than sit here and let myself be seen like this.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want to interrupt her version of me.
Not when she looks like this while she’s making it.
She’s across the room, sketchbook open, pencils moving in quiet rhythm.
And I can’t stop thinking.
About everything still ahead of us.
The firsts we haven’t had yet.
There are so many of them it almost feels unreal when I try to list them in my head. Though I am excited to share them with her.
Places she hasn’t seen.
Cities she’s only ever heard about.
Streets she’s never walked down without someone telling her where to go, what to do, what to avoid.
And I am going to be the one who changes that.
I want to take her everywhere.
Not just the big places people post about or dream about, but the small ones too.
The quiet corners. The restaurants tucked away where no one knows her name yet, and no one is watching.
I want to sit across from her at tables she’s never been allowed to choose for herself and watch her discover things without hesitation, without permission, without restriction.
I think about what she’s already missed.
All the rules.
All the limitations.
The controlled portions of life she was given instead of the full thing.
Something in me tightens at the idea that she ever had to earn basic experiences like they were privileges instead of rights.
That ends now.
It just does.
Because she’s here.
And I’m here.
And I get to change it.
Her pencil pauses, and I watch her expression shift slightly as she studies me again, more focused this time. Then she goes back to it, completely absorbed, like the rest of the world has stopped existing.
I should be thinking about everything else. I usually am.
But all I can see is her future.
Dinner reservations I haven’t made yet.
Flights I haven’t booked yet.
Her reaction to a place she’s never tasted food in before, laughing at something she didn’t expect to like.
Her hand in mine in cities she’s never stepped into.
And I know that this is what I want now.
Not just keeping her safe.
But giving her everything she was denied.
All of it.
Every first she should’ve already had.
I watch her draw me while I quietly plan a life I didn’t have before her—and somehow, it doesn’t feel like too much.
It feels like the beginning.
The sketchpad lowers slightly, and she pushes herself up from the chair, moving toward the bed.
Before I can even ask, she’s climbing up beside me.
Warmth settles over me as she settles on top of me, careful not to press too much weight down, balancing herself easily with one hand on my chest and the sketchpad in the other. Her hair brushes my arm when she leans in, and everything in me goes still in a different way.
“This,” she says softly, like she’s sharing something she’s been holding onto. “I want you to see.”
She turns the sketchpad toward me.
It takes a second for my brain to fully register it—not because I don’t understand what I’m looking at, but because I do.
It’s me.
But not how I usually see myself.
Not the version I’m used to.
This is… different.
It’s me, softened in a way I don’t have a word for. The posture is relaxed, but not careless. There’s strength in it, but not the kind I usually rely on. The tension in my face is still there, but it’s quieter—like it’s been understood instead of fought with.
And the eyes.
That’s what hits first.
Because she’s caught something in them I don’t think I’ve ever stopped to acknowledge.
Something unguarded underneath it.
Something that looks—if I’m honest—like I’m not bracing for impact for once.
I study it longer than I mean to.
My own face, through her hands.
Through her eyes.
It feels intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting. More than words would’ve been. Because this isn’t how I present myself to the world. This is how she sees me when I’m not actively trying to be anything at all.
I glance up at her.
She’s watching me closely now, waiting—but not anxious. Just present. Like she already knows what she’s drawn and only wants to see if I understand it too.
My hand shifts slightly against her side, holding her there with me.
I look back down at the sketch.
As she sees me.
I swallow once.
“Is that really how you see me?” I ask quietly, because I don’t trust anything louder.
My eyes drop back to the sketch.
To myself.
To what she’s made of me when I’m not trying to be anything at all.
“Fuck,” I murmur, softer now, almost to myself. Not frustration. Not disbelief. Something closer to surrender. “I look… happy.”
I finally look at her.
Really look.
Still on me. Still close. Pencil smudges faint on her fingers, sketchpad resting between us like she’s offering me proof of something I didn’t know I needed.
“You did that,” I say, quieter. More certain. “You made me look like that.”
I realize, with a clarity that doesn’t feel dramatic or overwhelming—just true—that I don’t want to go back to being the version of me that doesn’t exist in her eyes.
Not if this is what she sees.
Not if this is what I look like when I’m with her.
I glance down once more at the sketch, then back at her, and something settles in me for good this time.
“Keep it,” I say finally, voice low but steady. “All of it. Every sketch you want to make of me… you keep them.”
My fingers tighten slightly at her side.
“And I’ll keep giving you things worth drawing.”
I lean in, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead, lingering there a moment longer than I intend to.
When I pull back, I don’t move away.
Don’t break the moment.
Just stay there with her.
On the bed.
In the quiet. Or I would have, had we not been interrupted. A knock lands on the bedroom door
I don’t move at first.
Neither does Sera.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb her too much, and let out a low breath before I answer.
“Yeah?”
The door opens and Mac steps in, leaning just inside the frame like she already knows she’s interrupting something she probably shouldn’t be.
Her gaze flicks between us once, quick and assessing, before she speaks.
“Chace wants to talk to you and the boys. They’re waiting out by the pool.”
I give a small nod, already filing it away, already shifting gears in my head without fully leaving the space I’m in.
Then Mac’s attention settles on Sera, softer now, warmer.
“I was going to make everyone lunch,” she adds, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Do you want to help me?”
There’s a beat where Sera just looks at her.
Then she nods.
“Yes.” No hesitation. No overthinking.
I watch as Sera carefully slides off the bed, still wearing my cotton t-shirt, the fabric hanging off her in a way that shouldn’t be distracting yet absolutely is. She disappears into the walk-in closet without another word.
Mac doesn’t linger long after that. Just gives me a look that says she understands more than she’s saying, then slips back out and closes the door behind her.
Silence settles again.