32
Dylan
N ow
A splash of purple catches on my skin as I continue to put the finishing touches on the canvas, and a familiar throbbing in my head reminds me how long today’s been. The sound of Chasing Shadows by Alex Warren fills the air as I move to the stereo, my fingers brushing the dial to turn up the music. With a fluid motion, I return to blending the brush into the dark paint, adding another layer of depth to the scene. I take a step back, a faint smile tugging at my lips as I look over the piece. It’s nowhere near finished, but the foundation is there, and that’s enough to spark a sense of pride.
My brush makes a soft clink as it dips into the water, but my gaze never leaves the canvas. That spark of creativity within me ignites, coaxing me to layer more, to add just one more stroke. It’s been too long since I felt this buzz—the satisfaction of transforming emptiness into meaning, of filling the void with something that speaks.
I found myself wandering into a quiet art store downtown after visiting Beckett’s grave. What began as a single glass of wine soon became several, and now midnight is creeping up on me.
A sudden flicker of light dances across the room, followed by the unmistakable hum of electricity, before the room plunges into darkness. “Great,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes as they struggle to adjust.
I move slowly through the shadows, my fingers brushing the dresser before my body jolts from hitting a chair. “Seriously?” I breathe through gritted teeth, stumbling back. The windows tremble with the wind outside, and briefly, I question if I should have just turned in earlier. But the painting…it was like it was waiting for me.
I stumble toward the nightstand, my hands skimming along the bed for stability. When my leg hits the side, I almost lose my footing. Just as I grab my phone, it vibrates in my hand. I let out a sigh of relief—it’s not dead. I swipe at the screen, squinting at the name of the person texting me so late.
Brooks: Hey, just wanted to warn you, there’s a pretty bad storm coming in.
Dylan: Yeah, I noticed. The power just went out here.
Brooks: At The Drift? When?
Dylan: No…at my place in New York.
Dylan: Jk. Yeah & only a few minutes ago.
Brooks: Strange. The backup generator should’ve kicked on by now. You good?
Dylan: Yeah. Just painting actually. But I think I’ll call it a night, nbd.
Brooks: You were painting?
Brooks: I’ll head over and check it out.
Dylan: No, don’t. I can just go to bed. It’s fine.
Brooks: Nah, I’m coming. Be there in ten.
Dylan: You’re impossible.
Brooks: You love it. See you soon.
I let out a soft, almost bubbly laugh, the alcohol blurring the edges of my thoughts. His message is still on my screen, teasing me, and I can’t help the smile that creeps up. I nibble on my nail absentmindedly, my mind swirling with thoughts of him and this sudden arrival.
Then, it hits me—the excitement building in my chest.
Wait. What the hell? Am I…giddy?
I need to distract myself.
My hand fumbles for the lamp, but the room stays inky black. Duh, no power. I slip off the bed, switching on the flashlight from my phone. The narrow glow cuts a path through the dark, guiding me back to the canvas. The faint light stretches over the painting, casting odd shadows, but there’s a strange power to it now.
Typically the paint tends to settle, its boldness fading as it dries, but tonight it holds. It feels almost alive, breathing with energy, or maybe it’s just the play of light, but it’s magnetic.
Time slips away unnoticed as I stand there, until a knock stirs me. It’s light, but thoughtful, like he’s unsure whether to disturb the quiet. As I open the door, Brooks steps inside, shifting the weight of a large cardboard box in his arms. I flick the flashlight off in a rush, realizing too late that I’d been unintentionally spotlighting him like a deer caught in headlights.
“You finally picked up a brush again,” Brooks says, his smirk widening as he steps inside. “No way I’m letting a blackout ruin that. I brought reinforcements.”
“It’s just paint, Brooks.” A breath of amusement escapes me as I tilt my head. “I’m not sure it’s worth all this.”
“Some things are worth any excuse to show up. You’re one of them.” He bypasses me, his shoulder brushing mine, and places the box on the table with practiced ease. “Generators aren’t cooperating though,” he continues, glancing at me over his shoulder. “But candles? Candles I can do.”
It’s ridiculous—I forget to move, my focus caught on the way his dimples threaten at the edges of a grin as he rummages through the box. The candlelight carves shadows along the sharp lines of his jaw, flickering over the faint scar above his brow—the one I always forget about until I’m close enough for it to matter.
“Pretty sure this violates at least three safety codes,” I mutter, mostly to myself. He doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps arranging candles, each flame dancing to life under his careful hands. The light spills outward, creeping into the corners, casting restless shapes along the walls.
“You focus on painting—I’ll handle the potential fire hazards.” Brooks says, smirking.
“Oh, so you’re a firefighter now?” I cross my arms, watching as he flicks the lighter again, another candle catching.
“I contain emergencies of all kinds,” he says, straight faced. “Structural, emotional, mildly inconvenient power outages.” He gestures toward the room like he’s unveiling a masterpiece. “See? Crisis averted.” The final wick catches just as Brooks’ gaze finds mine—and in an instant, the room feels smaller.
Rain lashes against the glass, a steady drumbeat against the windows. Brooks moves toward me, about to speak, but then his attention veers. His gaze drawn toward my painting as if it pulled him in without permission.
A strange vulnerability settles over me, as if I’ve poured too much of myself into the image without meaning to. The storm rages on, but it feels miles away, drowned out by the way Brooks takes in every detail—each line, each shade—as if deciphering a language I thought only I understood.
Swirls of violet and obsidian paint bleed into one another forming a horizon that blurs like a dream slipping away. In the heart of it all, a woman stands on the precipice of a jagged cliff, her figure caught between the wild sea and the unruly sky. Clouds coil and rage above as tendrils of the girl’s hair dissolve into slivers of molten light, fracturing the shadows that cling to her.
His fingers flex once before stilling, a muscle in his jaw tightens. He doesn’t have to say a word—I know when something hits him. And this? This has landed square in his chest. He leans in slightly, drawn to the rocky foundation she stands on. There’s something almost reverent in the way his eyes move over it. I can nearly see the realization settle in. She isn’t bracing for impact. She’s holding firm. Resilient.
“You didn’t just paint this on a whim. You said you haven’t touched a paintbrush since you left. Something broke through—what was it?”
The name sticks to my tongue like glue, but I push it out anyway. “Beckett.” My heart pounds furiously, and there’s a weight lifting with every beat, a rhythm I haven’t felt in years settling into place.
“I’ve seen you in a lot of ways, but I think this is the closest I’ve ever been to seeing you completely,” he murmurs, taking a slow step closer. “Dylan, you…”
His sentence dissolves, his eyes catching on mine. His focus dips to my mouth, and instinctively, my tongue darts out, a motion I don’t even register until it’s done. Maybe it’s the way the storm sings against the walls, the cabernet blurring the sharpness of my thoughts, or the way this painting is spilling my secrets. But the way my body responds to him, the way he shifts something inside me—none of that can be blamed on the weather or the wine.
The distance between us fades so naturally I don’t decide to touch him—I just do. My fingertips skim over his stubbled jaw, following the slope until they reach his lips. His lips part beneath my touch, and I take my time tracing their shape, like I’m etching this moment into memory.
Brooks takes my hand, his touch light as he tilts his head, finding my palm in a kiss that feels more like a confession than a touch. The heat of it seeps through my skin, curling through me so slowly I forget to breathe.
My body molds to his as if it was always meant to and his free hand finds my back, holding me there, like I might slip away if he doesn’t keep me close. This isn’t a dream.
His touch ignites something deep inside me, every inch of my skin hypersensitive. His lips brush mine, featherlight, but then he stops—hovering in the space between caution and surrender.
I see it now, plain as day—he’s fucking starving for this, and I’m the feast he’s been denying himself. His grip isn’t careful, it’s possessive, like letting go would break him in half.
Ten years ago, I left. I thought I could sever this connection between us, but the way he touches me now, makes it clear I never really let him go. His hands on me rewrite the past, erase every year I spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable. I am his, always have been, and I don’t have it in me to fight it anymore.
“Dylan, if this isn’t what you want, you need to tell me now.” He growls the words against my lips, a plea wrapped in a command, as if the effort to hold himself back is killing him.
My fingers push beneath his shirt, greedily mapping the hard planes of his stomach. His breath stutters, hot against my skin, and it’s a goddamn miracle I can still speak. “I fucking need this.”
“God, Dylan.” His voice drips with sin, a languid, tantalizing game as his fingers skim the edge of my satin shorts. When our lips finally meet, it’s an unrelenting collision, the kind that demands to be felt in every cell.
I ease back, and his eyes—green, endless, impossible—snare me. They glow in the dim light, something eternal, something I’ll forever know in my bones.
His pupils go dark, blown wide as he drags both my shorts and underwear lower, fingers skimming over the lace that’s already ruined for him. “Fuck,” he rasps, his voice vibrating with need. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”
I fumble with his belt, my hands clumsy with urgency. His hips shift, pressing into me, and I swear I nearly whimper at the contact. He chuckles, the sound rich and infuriating, but when his hands move to help, I don’t push them away.
His breath is uneven as I slide down the last barrier between us, releasing him. A hand in my hair, a sharp tug at my scalp, and suddenly I’m turned, his body caging mine against the slow burn of the room. His fingers splay over my neck, the inked branches on his wrist stark against my skin, my pulse hammering beneath his grip.
He takes a step forward, silently urging me to match his movement, and I blink, suddenly aware of the mattress’s edge grazing my knees. My pelvis clenches as his length swells behind me, and I rock against him eagerly, gasping at the feel. Instinct takes over, my hand grasping his wrist where it’s wrapped around my throat, wanting nothing more than to feel him even closer.
His stubbled jaw grazes my shoulder, teeth scraping lightly over my skin. He tastes me with the hunger of someone who’s waited too long, and I want to lose myself in it. His mouth finds my ear, breath scorching as he whispers something that has my nails digging into his skin like I might never let go.
“Every. Damn. Dream. And now, I’m not wasting another second.”
With a guttural growl, his grip finally releases, and in one smooth, calculated motion, he bends me over the bed—like I was always meant to be here. With him.