Page 14 of For Pucking Ever

I meet his gaze, summoning every ounce of pride I have left. "What else could it have been?"

FIVE

SEBASTIAN

The morning light slices across the hardwood floors of my studio, thin and sharp as a blade. I would usually appreciate the chiaroscuro of nature’s artistry but not this morning. The spark isn't there.

Beyond the wide windows, Lake Washington glitters in the early sun, still and endless. Tranquil in a way that would normally motivate me to capture it with fervor. Instead, it feels like the scene is mocking the fuck out of me.

I sit on the worn stool in front of a blank canvas, brush hanging limp between my fingers, and try to summon something, anything that doesn't look like Derrick Shaw's handsome fucking face.

It's no use.

The colors blur together in my mind, useless and flat. Reds that should be fire, blues that should bleed into stormy grays, everything refusing to take shape the way it normally does when I lose myself in my work. My fingers tighten around the brush handle until my knuckles ache. Beside checking on Derrick and tending to his needs, I’ve sat here for five hours with nothing to show but a wasted canvas and dried paint. Because I can't stop thinking about yesterday morning. About him. The way he flinched when I called him Princesse, that subtle protective recoil I've never seen before, like my voice had become something harmful. The way he shoved the omelet around his plate like it personally offended him, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces until it was just yellow confetti. The way he looked at me, like I was a stranger, those warm brown eyes suddenly distant, searching my face for something he couldn't find. That look hollowed me out.

He meant it, too. The moment we shared all boiled down to nothing. What else could it have been? That's what he said. Honestly, he‘s right.

I drag a hand over my hair, frustration curling hot in my gut.

You wanted this, remember? Distance. Safety. No mess. Then why does it feel like I'm crawling out of my own skin?

My phone vibrates against the scarred worktable. A quick glance shows the group text lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. With a sigh, I thumb it open.

Tor: Status update on our wounded Toronto bird?

Devan: Please tell me he's at least flashing you puppy dog eyes. Or flipping you off. Either way, iconic.

Ridley: Brea says if you don't feed him properly, she's staging a rescue mission.

Tor: Seriously though. How's he doing, Bast?

Devan: And how are you doing? (You're allowed to answer, Bast. I know you think you're allergic to feelings.)

Me: Recovering. Both of us. Stop being nosy.

Ridley: Pfft. You're the most emotionally constipated person we know. Nosy is required.

Tor: You've always been good at locking shit down. But Bast. . .what if this time you didn't? Share with the class ole broody one.

Ridley: Yeah. What if, for once, it's not just about surviving? We get it big guy. There's a lot you keep close to your chest. We are here when you want to spill. I've been there.

Devan: Maybe it's about. . .I don't know. . .living a little. Preferably with someone who looks at you like Derrick does. Come on Bast. . .we all saw it last summer.

Me: You guys don't know what you're talking about.

Tor: Maybe not. Or maybe we know you better than you think.

Ridley: Nobody's saying you gotta marry Baby Shaw, dude. Just. . .don't wall yourself off so fast this time. Maybe you deserve good things too.

Me: Enjoy your road trip, Rid. Tor and Devan go raise your unborn children and leave me alone.

Tor: Can't. We're invested now. Also, Alexis says hi. She's literally yelling it from the couch. She says she's loving the entire age gap, grumpy/sunshine trope you've got going on. Oh wait. . .now, I’m going to have to stop my wife from going into the writing cave.

Ridley: Brea says you're probably brooding dramatically by a window. Is she right? Crossing my fingers.

Me: . . .fuck off.

Devan: Brooding Bastian. Has a nice ring to it. Tor, Alexis, I'm going with ‘forced proximity’.