Mavi
The knock comes at seven. I wipe the paint from my hands on the rag at my waist and check that the pasta water is still simmering on the stove, then cross the apartment barefoot and step carefully over the canvas drying by the door.
When I open the door, Sai’s reaction stops me short.
I’m standing there in my real state, the paint-stained shirt hanging off one shoulder. No makeup covers my face and astreak of cadmium yellow marks my cheekbone. This version of me never appears on any screen.
Yet, Sai’s lips part and his chest stops moving for a full second. He looks at me, messy and unpolished with chaos behind me, like I am more beautiful than I was last night in the robe. He sees me this way because of the mess, not despite it.
The genuine flicker of surprise I feel settles quickly. I step back and hold the door wide. “Hey. Come in. Watch the blue canvas on the floor. It bites if you step on it.”
I watch as his gaze moves across the long amber light pouring through the west windows, the canvases stacked against the far wall, and the brushes, rags, and reference photos pinned to the corkboard without any clear system. My apartment looks like someone shook a paint store and a thrift shop inside a blender and poured everything into four walls.
His own space sits perfectly aligned and measured to the millimeter. Though, there’s no judgment on Sai’s face, only fascination. His fingers twitch at his sides as though they ache for a camera.
The sight feels stupidly endearing. The man cannot turn that instinct off even for a second.
We still haven’t named what happened between us last night. I’m not sure I want to because then it makes it real. And something real can be taken away.
Sai moves straight toward the easel. The painting is not a literal portrait of him, yet the energy belongs to him completely. The urgent brushwork and the heat trapped in the colors come from the impression of his body that stayed warm on my skin this morning after I left his apartment.
He studies the piece, stepping close, then back again, tilting his head while he examines the visible underpainting in the lower left corner. “You left the cool ground showing on purpose,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“It changes the temperature of the entire piece. The cool layer bleeding through the warm one creates tension. The painting argues with itself.”
Something warm shifts inside my chest. He not only understands photography but art on the same level I do. The conversation easily morphs into the differences between our mediums. He speaks about freezing a single moment while I dissolve time. His whole face lights up as he talks about his work and for a moment, I can see that Sai Hollis isn’t just a photographer. He’s a creator.
When the pasta water starts to boil, I rush over to turn down the heat and twist back to look at Sai. “So what are you feeling?” I ask as I pull open the drawer stuffed with takeout menus and QR codes. “Thai, Italian, ramen on Fifth, or I started pasta but I can scrap it. There is leftover curry or pizza.”
Sai doesn’t answer at first. I start to repeat myself when I realize the Alpha’s gone completely still.
His eyes lose focus. His jaw locks tight. His right hand rests on his thigh while his fingers move in a rigid, rapid pattern. Index, middle, ring, pinky, press.
“Sai?”
His breathing turns shallow with small tight sips of air through his nose. Tension runs through his shoulders like something structural has seized inside him.
I gave him six different food options with six different sub-decisions. The cascade must have overloaded his system. I see it clearly now. His mind behaves like a screen that freezes when too many windows open at once and the processor simply stops.
My first instinct feels wrong but I follow it anyway. “Or we could go out. There is that new place on —”
The tapping grows faster. His breathing shallows even more. Adding a seventh option did not help. It only made everythingworse. I stop talking. I close my mouth and stand there holding the fistful of takeout menus while I really look at him.
I set the menus down, take a breath and try something gentler.
“Hey.” I keep my voice soft and step toward him. “Can I touch you? Is that okay?”
The sound that leaves Sai is barely human. A small strangled noise rises from the back of his throat. His eyes begin to glass over and a shine builds along his lower lashes.
“Sai, do you want to sit down? Or we could move to the couch, or I could —”
“Please.” The word cracks out of him like something finally breaking. His voice comes out raw, barely above a whisper. “Please just stop asking me questions.”
Understanding slowly dawns on me. The hallway freeze on the first day happened because direct eye contact introduced too many social variables. Then everything unlocked when I said morning neighbor. Four syllables. No question. No choice required.
The doorway last night showed the same pattern. He could not speak or move or step forward until I pressed my hand to his chest and told him what I already knew he wanted. I didn’t ask do you want to kneel. I said get on your knees.
