Chapter 12 - Talia #2
“And the brush matters,” I continue, warming up. “The paint matters. The surface matters. Even the way you breathe can affect your line if you’re doing detail work.”
His mouth twitches. “You breathe wrong and ruin a painting.”
“Basically, yes.”
“That would drive me insane.”
“It does,” I admit, laughing. “But in a good way.”
The rest of dinner unfolds like that. Easy conversation. Small jokes. Light teasing.
He tells me Petrov made them repeat a drill six times because Connor’s timing was off by “a fraction.”
I confess my tongue is still slightly numb from tasting the sauce too early.
“Good,” Jake says. “Maybe it’ll stop you from talking.”
I toss a napkin at him.
He catches it without even looking.
Show-off.
By the time our plates are empty, the tension in his shoulders has eased into something almost calm.
He leans back in his chair, studying me.
“Did you really have dinner ready and waiting?” he asks. “You didn’t even know when I’d be home.”
“Well, I thought about texting you,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you?”
I shrug lightly. “I didn’t know if I was allowed.”
His brow lifts. “Of course you’re allowed.” His tone firms. “There’ll be more things we need to talk about. And you shouldn’t hesitate to reach out if you need something. Don’t you agree?”
I grin at him. “I definitely agree. You are my husband, after all.”
He groans, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“While we’re at it,” he says carefully, “we should probably also talk about our living arrangement.”
My stomach flips.
That sounds… official.
I fold my arms loosely, trying not to look like I’m bracing for impact. “Okay.”
“I know you don’t want to move back in with your dad,” he continues. His voice is even, practical. “And I get it.”
That alone makes my chest ache.
“If we want any chance of keeping this quiet,” he goes on, “you need to avoid him as much as possible.”
I swallow. “I agree.”
He gestures vaguely around the house. “So I think it’s best if you stay here. For now. Until everything’s resolved. The house is big enough. Space isn’t an issue.”
I open my mouth, close it again, then settle on the safest response I can manage.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
***
After we clean up together, the kitchen looks spotless again. Jake rinses the dishes with quick, efficient movements while I wipe down the counters. It feels… domestic in a way that makes heat creep into my cheeks.
When we’re finished, I hesitate in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
“I… um. Do you want to see what I painted now?” I ask, suddenly shy.
“Yes.”
The answer comes so quickly I almost think I imagined it. But he’s already stepping past me.
I blink.
I did not expect that level of enthusiasm from Jake.
Okay, yes, he can be very enthusiastic about certain other things.
But about a painting?
I follow him into the living room, where the canvas waits against the wall.
I gesture toward it with a small shrug. “If you want it, it’s yours. For the living room. If not, that’s fine too. And it’s not finished yet. I still need to…” My voice trails off.
Jake doesn’t respond.
His entire body goes still.
I watch his shoulders tighten. Watch his throat move as he swallows.
He stares at the painting like he’s trying to make sense of it.
It’s a photorealistic rendering of his house and garden, captured from just outside. Late afternoon light washes over everything. Warm glow spilling from the windows. The yard pristine, but softened by the golden haze settling over the hedges. The glass reflecting the sky.
Jake steps closer.
He studies it the way he studies game film. Methodical. Focused. His eyes scan every detail.
The line of the roof. The shadows under the eaves. The reflection in the windows.
My stomach knots.
He swallows again.
Then, quietly, “You did this from memory?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His gaze flicks to me.
“I took a picture,” I admit. “Yesterday.”
Jake’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you paint it outside?”
I let out a small breath, relieved he’s asking practical questions instead of telling me it’s terrible. “The light changes too fast. Shadows shift. Colors move. If you’re trying to capture one specific moment, a photo helps freeze it.”
He looks at me like I just explained quantum physics.
“You make it sound… technical,” he says.
“It is,” I reply. “Art is emotional, but it’s also precise. It’s values. Angles. Ratios. It’s almost math.”
His gaze drifts back to the canvas.
“You’re good,” he says quietly.
I blink.
“Like,” he adds, almost grudgingly, “really good.”
He keeps staring at it, like he’s seeing his own house through someone else’s eyes for the first time.
“You could sell these,” he says.
I swallow. “I’m trying. It’s just not easy without connections.” I hesitate. “And my dad doesn’t exactly think art qualifies as a real job. To him it’s… a hobby.”
Jake’s head turns slowly toward me.
His eyes narrow, not at me. At the idea.
“That’s bullshit,” he says flatly.
A startled, slightly watery laugh escapes me. “I know.”
He steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. The space between us disappears until I can feel the heat radiating off him.
His gaze shifts to my face.
Then his thumb lifts, brushing lightly along the side of my neck.
I go completely still.
He drags his thumb once, slow and careful. When he pulls it back, there’s a faint smear of paint on his skin.
I hadn’t even noticed it was there.
He studies his thumb for a second, like the softness of the gesture caught him off guard.
Then he drops his hand abruptly, like he’s crossed a line he didn’t mean to.
Jake clears his throat. “It’s… good,” he says again, voice rougher now. “It’ll look good over the mantel.”
My heart stumbles.
“Yeah?” I manage.
He nods once, eyes returning to the painting, like it’s safer to look at that than at me.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll hang it.”