“You what?”
“It was hard to miss.”
“I covered it.”
“The cloth came off.”
She closes her eyes.
“This is horrifying.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“You found a giant unfinished portrait of yourself in my burning living room.”
“Half finished.”
Her eyes fly open.
“You looked long enough to notice?”
“I had eyes.”
“You were rescuing me.”
“I can do two things.”
She stares at me, cheeks turning pink, and I almost smile.
“How long?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “How long what?”
“Have you been drawing me?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Probably not.”
“Good.”
I do not move.
She studies my face.
“That is not what you really want to ask.”
She is right.
“How long have you wanted me?”
The humor leaves her expression. She answers without looking away.
“Longer than you think.”
My pulse kicks.
She steps closer.
