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Alice complains all the way in the cab and then falls quiet the second we pull up outside her house. Jack notices, giving me one of those quick glances that says his humour is off the table. At least he realises that imposter syndrome is a hard ass sonofabitch.

Alice’s place feels different tonight. The first time I came here, I was too overwhelmed by her to see it properly. The mess, the colour, the life everywhere. It’s so completely Alice it almost hurts.

She pauses outside the studio door once we get upstairs.

“I don’t want either of you doing that thing,” she says.

Jack raises his brows. “What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend something is good because you give a shit about my feelings. No fakery, ok?”

I go still.

Jack doesn’t.

“I’d never pretend bad art was good because I give a shit about you. Yeah, I was trying to get in your panties at the charity event, but I still spent sixty grand. I thought they were great.”

She blinks.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Fine. If these paintings stink, I’ll say they stink with an excellent distraction immediately afterwards. We can get a top notch bonus takeout on the way home.”

Despite herself, she smiles, but I’m not here for Jack’s bullshit.

I take a step closer to her. I want her to know I’m here. Really here. Just like I always was.

“Alice. I’ll be honest, I swear.”

Her eyes hold mine.

The trust in that moment is too much.

She takes a deep breath before she opens the door.

Jesus Christ. The canvases are lined up against the far wall. All three of them. Big. Bold. Striking beyond recognition.

And for a moment, I forget where I am.

I forget Jack.

I forget myself.

I forget everything but colour.

The first canvas is Jack’s red, but not in the way I remember from that chaotic beginning. It has depth now. Layers. The red is still fierce, still alive, but the brush strokes slice through it with such force it feels like dawn has been dragged through fire. Gold fractures across the surface in bright, broken veins, like usual, but I see the difference straight away. Mirrored across all three of them.

Alice’s black lines aren’t straight. Not on these.

They bend.

Slightly.

Defiantly.

It makes my throat close up and my pulse race.

The second canvas is darker. My purples have been mixed with blue and shadowed gold, with what looks at first like ruin and then, as I step closer, I see the movement revealing itself. The imprint of our bodies is still there, holding the flow of the lines. I can see us. I can see Alice’s thighs and Jack’s ass cheeks. I can see the roll of my shoulder. Like memory. Like a volcano of pleasure in disguise.