I turned around. He was in the doorway, two mugs in his hands, and he looked caught, panicked even.
"I was drawing to occupy my hands." His voice was tense, his accent thicker than I’d heard it. His eyes kept going from my face to the portrait and back. "It’s a coping mechanism. My therapist suggested creative expression as an alternative to the cube when I’m in a state of elevated…" He stopped to take a breath. "I’m sorry. I know how this looks. I understand if you’re disturbed. I will get rid of it."
He set the mugs down on the workbench, came toward the easel, and reached for the drawing.
He was going to tear it off. I could see it in the way his hand moved, quick and decisive, and he was going to destroy it because he thought it frightened me.
"Wait… don’t!" I grabbed his wrist.
Thunder broke outside, loud enough to rattle the skylight, and we both flinched but neither of us let go. His wrist was warm under my fingers. Bare skin. No gloves. His pulse was racing.
"Don’t get rid of it." My voice came out fiercer than I expected. His eyes sliced back to mine. "I’m not disturbed. Don’t... destroy it."
His eyes dropped to my hand on his wrist. To my fingers wrapped around his bare skin. When he looked back up, his pupils were blown wide.
We were both breathing hard. The rain was hammering the glass above us and the gray light fell across the portrait and his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the dark hair across his forehead, the gray eyes looking at me with an intensity that made it hard to stand still.
He was beautiful. Not in any way I'd been prepared for. Beautiful the way a storm is beautiful, the way somethingdangerous and wild looks when you get close enough to see the details. The sweep of his eyelashes, dark against his skin. The long line of his throat. His lips pressed together like he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Something unguarded and almost fragile underneath all that composure, visible only because he didn't know I was looking.
"It’s beautiful," I said.
He blinked. "What?"
"The… portrait. It’s beautiful."
He stared at me. "You’re not…" He searched for the word. "Disturbed?"
"If you apologize one more time for making something this good, I’m going to be offended on behalf of the portrait."
He looked at me, then down to where I was still gripping his wrist.
I let go and stepped back. The room felt bigger without the contact.
His gaze cut to mine. "When the rain stops, you should leave."
"We haven’t talked yet," I pressed.
"There’s nothing to talk about."
"There’s a lot of things to talk about. You disappeared for a week. Your schedule is a disaster. Miles is barely holding the office together. You need to come back. And we need to figure out how to work together without…" I gestured between us. "Without this."
"Without this." He repeated it slowly.
"Whatever this is."
"I know what this is, Anna. That’s precisely the problem."
I swallowed. His eyes followed the movement, lingering on my lips before finding my eyes again. He swallowed too. "I’ll return when I’m ready."
"When is ready?" I asked, breathless.
"When I can look at you without wanting things I shouldn’t want." He looked anywhere but at me. "Thanks for checking on me, but it’s not needed."
"I didn’t come here to make things harder," I said.
"You being here already makes everything harder." His voice was thicker now. "You made it clear, you’re kind, because that’s who you are, I was already coming to terms with that and you’re standing in my studio in my sweater and you understand exactly what that does."
"What does it do?"
