The power didn't just flicker this time. It died with a violent, finalclunkthat sounded like a heavy coffin lid slamming shut.
The hum of the refrigerator, the whir of the backup generator, the faint buzz of Anders’ server stack, all of it was severed in an instant. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was deafening, broken only by the gale-force wind howling around the glass corners of the house and the relentless hammer of rain against the roof.
"Well," I whispered to the dark living room. "There goes the power."
I was sitting on the floor near the massive slate hearth, crumbling a piece of charcoal between my fingers, turning my skin black. It was a nervous tic. A grounding mechanism. If my hands were dirty, they felt real. If they were clean, I felt like I was floating.
A match flared in the darkness, a tiny, sputtering star.
I looked up.
Tessa was kneeling by the fireplace, her face illuminated by the sudden burst of yellow light. She touched the flame to the stack of kindling Daniel had laid out earlier, because of courseDaniel had prepared a perfect, architectural log cabin of dry wood just in case.
The fire caught instantly, growing from a spark to a roar, throwing long, dancing shadows against the glass walls.
The sudden warmth hit me, smelling of cedar and wood smoke. But it was the sight of her that knocked the air out of my lungs.
The firelight painted her in strokes of frantic orange and deep, velvet shadows. It caught the curve of her cheekbone, the hollow of her throat, the wild, escaping tendrils of her hair. Without the harsh, clinical lighting of the kitchen or the grey gloom of the storm, she didn't look like a victim. She looked like a Renaissance oil painting, something precious, heavy with emotion, and frozen in time.
She sat back on her heels, watching the flames. She was wearing leggings and one of those massive, swallow-you-whole sweaters she clearly used as armor. But right now, the armor looked soft.
"You're staring," she said.
She didn't look at me. She kept her gaze on the fire, but her voice wasn't angry. It was just factual. Tired.
"I’m an artist," I said, my voice sounding rough in the quiet room. I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans, ruining the denim for the hundredth time. "It’s a professional hazard."
"You're not just looking," she murmured. She turned her head slowly, colliding with my gaze across the few feet of rug that separated us. Her eyes were dark pools reflecting the flames. "You're dissecting."
I flinched. The accusation hit close to the bone.
"I’m trying to memorize the light," I confessed. "The way the orange hits the angle of your jaw. It’s… warm. You’ve looked cold for so long."
Tessa shifted, pulling her knees to her chest. "I saw your book."
The breath seized in my throat. I felt a cold flush of panic wash over me, tasting of bile and burnt sugar. The sketchbook. The black book I had left in the bedroom like a loaded gun.
"Tessa, I?—"
"You didn't just draw the bad parts," she interrupted softly. "You drew… everything. You drew me sleeping. You drew me looking out the window."
She paused, licking her dry lips.
"You drew a girl I don't recognize. Someone strong."
I couldn't stay on the other side of the rug. Gravity was pulling me toward her, inevitable and terrifying. I scooted closer, moving into her orbit until I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, mixing with the warmth of the fire.
"I drew the truth," I whispered. "I drew what I saw from the bleachers. Everyone else saw a breakdown. I saw a girl fighting a war against her own body and losing with grace."
I reached out, my hand hovering in the space between us. My fingers were black with charcoal dust, scarred with ink. They were dirty, grasping things.
"I haven't just been drawing you for a few weeks, Tessa," I admitted, the secret tearing its way out of my chest. "I’ve been drawing you for years."
Her eyes widened slightly, catching the firelight, as though she hadn’t expected me to admit what she already knew, at least what she knew if she’d looked through the whole book.
"From memory," I said. "In coffee shops. In boring meetings. On the back of napkins at 3 AM when I couldn't sleep."
I looked down at my hand, trembling in the air.
