Page 94 of Lyric & the Heartbeats

Emerson choked back an argument, and Lyric shuffled, raising a hand to wave the cool air of the room to motion for them to get up.

“It’s your body, your business,” Emerson conceded. “But if you need anything, let us know.”

“Okay,” Lyric agreed, her heart squeezing. What could they do? It was her suppressants, her problem.

He squeezed her once before shuffling out of bed and holding out a hand to pull her across the expanse and to her feet.

“We’re just going right to the bus, I’m not bothering with real clothes,” she muttered, digging around in her pile of clothes for a comfy shirt.

“There are shirts in my bag, help yourself to one,” Adra mumbled.

She glanced over her shoulder and… the shirt slipped through her fingers to drift to the floor. Adra was rolled over on his stomach near the edge of the bed, his left hand tucked lazily beneath his cheek, fingers lightly gripping the edge of the mattress as his right arm dangled over the side to touch the floor. He was a perfect picture of too early mornings, and he looked far too tempting.

“Stop that. You’re making me want to get back in bed.”

Adra rolled over slowly, taking the sheet with him—barely—and showed off his morning wood.

“Then do so,” he retorted in an irresistible morning rasp.

Lyric took a step just as his hand slipped beneath the tented sheet and began to move. The fabric shifted with each stroke and Lyric’s mouth watered.

“Not fair,” she breathed, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Hey!” Emerson barked from the bathroom.

Lyric jumped, her cheeks flushing guiltily as she turned toward him.

“It’s bus time. Not play time,” he warned.

Adra sighed dramatically, and by the time she’d faced him again, his hands were tucked safely beneath his head, biceps wired with muscle.

“You’re no fun.” Lyric pouted at them both.

“I can be plenty of fun. Later. But let’s not piss Henry off. Get ready.”

Lyric moved to do just that and mocked his stern expression to pull a chuckle from Adra. She veered toward Adra’s bag and began rifling through his shirts. “Adra… why do all your shirts have stains on them? Are they…” She rubbed her finger over a pale orange smear and cocked her head. “Paint?”

He glanced away as he answered, “Probably.”

Lyric dropped the shirt to hang between her two fists. “You paint?”

How did I not know this?

“Maybe.” He shrugged and pushed himself up to sit on the bed.

Lyric arched a brow, signaling for more information as she slipped her shirt over her head. If he could play tease, so could she.

Adra went silent as she folded her shirt and grabbed one of his. Eventually, she glanced up as the silence stretched on, rolling her hand at him to continue. His gaze jumped from her chest to her eyes, and a smile threatened to replace the indifferent expression she was barely holding on to.

“Right... I draw. Sketch mostly. I play with paints only when I feel particularly… inspired.”

“When was the last time you painted?”

“Don’t know. But I can say I’m feeling pretty inspired right now,” he drawled, his words dripping with something she couldn’t define but would be more than happy to let him try and explain. Or maybe even show her.

Did Adra pour his heart and soul onto paper with a pencil and smudged fingers over blank paper the same way she did with a pencil and crossed out lyrics on a lined sheet?

It was unfair, but she wanted to see his notebook, wanted to read the bible of Adra and see who he was through his art.