Page 82 of Reeves

The painter dips his brush and stretches to reach a corner, completely focused on keeping his lines straight. Benjy stepssideways for a better angle, bumping the ladder base with his shoulder.

The aluminum frame rocks slightly.

"Benjy—"

Reeves moves before I finish the word. His chair scrapes back and he crosses the small space in three quick strides, wrapping his arms around Benjy's waist and pulling him backward just as the ladder tilts further.

The sudden movement jolts the platform above. One of the paint cans tips over the edge and plummets downward, striking Reeves squarely on the shoulder before splashing pale blue paint down the front of his t-shirt.

The entire deli goes quiet.

Reeves stands there dripping, arms still protective around Benjy, paint streaking across his back and arms.

Benjy stares up at him with wide eyes for a long moment. Then he bursts into delighted laughter.

"You look like the bad guy fromHome Alone!"

The painter scrambles down his ladder, face flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt? That was completely my fault for not securing the platform better."

The deli owner rushes over with an armload of paper towels, shaking her head.

"I told Miguel to move those paint cans down before lunch rush. This is on us, not you folks."

Reeves releases Benjy and accepts the towels, dabbing at the worst of the mess off his shoulder without much success. He's covered and I'm pretty sure his shirt and probably shorts are ruined.

Benjy, meanwhile, doesn't have a single drop on him.

Reeves must have turned his body when he grabbed him, pulling him in tight and taking the full splash himself.

"It's fine. Just paint. No harm done."

"Your shirt is ruined," the owner insists. "We'll pay for cleaning or replacement, whatever you need."

"Really, it's not a problem. Accidents happen."

His voice stays calm and reassuring even while pale blue paint drips from his earlobe onto his shoulder. The same steady tone he probably uses to manage crisis situations in much more dangerous circumstances.

Benjy circles him, examining the paint coverage with scientific interest.

"It's everywhere! Even in your hair a little bit. You might want to go jump in the ocean."

"Thanks for that assessment, buddy."

Reeves is almost smiling despite being covered in wet paint, his shirt darkening where it clings to his firm pecs and shoulders. The tension from earlier has completely disappeared, replaced by this moment of unexpected humor.

I watch him comfort the worried painter and assure the owner that everything is fine, all while looking like he stepped out of a cartoon disaster. The paint soaks through his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and down his abdomen, outlining muscle that has no business being this distracting right now.

Oh. This is a problem.

"Reeves." I stand and grab more towels from the counter. "You can't drive back to New Orleans like that. The paint will stick to everything in your truck."

He looks down at himself as if just realizing the practical implications.

"Yeah. This might be an issue."

"Come back to the house," I tell him. "It's closer to walk there than to our spot on the beach. You can rinse off, and I'll see if I can get the paint out before it sets."