Page 114 of The Painter and His Poet

“I had no idea about any of this. Your father never mentioned anything.”

“He’s still ashamed of me, of my condition, so of course he wouldn’t. As you can imagine, my father... Well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with a child who didn’t act ‘normal.’ Looking back now, I know it’s because he just didn't want to.”

“God, Sterling. I’m so sorry,” Harlow exclaims. “Did he never eventryto understand you?”

I bite my lip, swallowing the pain of his abject refusal to see me as anything other than a problem he needed to fix. “He sent me to countless therapists, made me undergo a barrage of tests with various specialists, all in hopes of fixing me. But none of it helped because I didn’t need fixing, Harlow. I needed understanding, patience,love, and he couldn’t bring himself to give me any of that.”

“What a cruel bastard, Sterling. I’m so angry for you,” Harlow gets to her feet, traversing the table as she ducks down before me and cradles my hands in hers.

“Eventually, when I was old enough to articulate what was happening to me, my mother…” I pause, my voice softening as I think of her. “She figured out that I needed an outlet—something to release everything I was feeling and experiencing. She brought me some art supplies, and together we found a wayto manage my condition. When I paint, I can purge myself of the colour, easing that part of me.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” she says, her thumbs gently stroking the backs of my hands.

“It was the first time I felt like someone truly understood me, and yes, my mother is wonderful. Without her love and support I don’t think I’d be here today.”

“Oh, Sterling…” Harlow murmurs, her eyes filling with tears at my confession.

“You can understand why school was tough for me. Kids can be particularly cruel when they know someone is different,” I explain, gritting my jaw at the memory of that period of my life. “Over the years, I’ve found ways to manage my condition. If I’m out where I know I might hear music, I normally wear noise cancelling headphones. In New York, the night we met, someone bumped into me on the street, knocking off my headphones. That’s when I heard you singing, and the colour your voice conjured was so fucking beautiful, Harlow, that I was helpless against it.”

“But I’ve sung so many times in front of you without realising the effect it has on you. That night when I played the piano…” Her voice trails off and she winces. “Have I caused you pain, Sterling?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me, when I was younger it was difficult to manage, yes. But ever since my mother figured out how to help me, I’ve been able to use art to express this side of me. It’s lessened the negative impact of my condition, and enabled me to earn a living as well. I can’t lie and tell you that your singing doesn’t have a profound effect on me, both emotionally and physically, or that I’m not drained after an episode, but I want you to know that I’m grateful for the beauty your voice evokes, and I’m so fucking glad I heard you singing that night.”

There’s a pause as she takes in what I’ve said. Then she reaches up, her voice soft as she cups my cheeks in her palms. “I think this is incredibly special, Sterling. You see the world in a way no one else can.”

I smile, a small, bittersweet smile. “I try to tell myself that. It’s just hard when one of the people who should love you, no matter what, would change you into someone you’re not rather than accept you for who you are.”

Harlow gives me a small nod, her gaze drifting to the canvas. "Well, I think you're brave for sharing this part of yourself with me, and I’m so grateful that you have. I would never want to change you, Sterling.Never. Do you hear me?”

“I do. Fuck, Harlow…” I release a shaky breath, the fear and anxiety I’ve been carrying around with me melting away as she rises up on her knees and kisses me gently, her lips soft against mine.

She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “No more secrets, okay?”

I nod, my hand trembling slightly as I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

Her expression softens, and she waits, patient and calm. “Okay.”

I take a deep breath before continuing. “Back home, on the grounds of Adaga Hall, I have an art studio. And right now… it’s filled with paintings of you.”

She blinks, her voice barely a whisper. “Of me?”

I nod, my heart pounding. “Yes, you. Ever since we first met, you’ve been my muse, Harlow. Every colour, every painstaking brushstroke—it’s all been about you. Fuck, I’ve even…”

“What, Sterling?”

A flood of colour heats my cheeks, but I refuse to feel shame. Instead I meet her gaze and say, “I’ve been so consumed by you, so obsessed with everything about you that it wasn’t enough tojust paint your image on canvas. I needed to leave my mark, a piece of me if you will.” Dropping my gaze to my hardening cock, I fist my dick over my trousers. “So I’d fuck my hand until I came, and painted my cum into your lips knowing that a piece of me will forever be a part of you.”

Harlow gasps.

“Does that disgust you?” I ask, bracing myself for rejection.

She shakes her head, her breath hitching. “No, Sterling, that doesn’t disgust me. It turns me on.”

“Thank fuck,” I mutter, swiping a hand through my hair, the relief I feel is palpable. Reaching in my pocket, I pull out my bunch of keys, and reach for the spare to my art studio. Releasing it from the clasp, I hand it to her. “This is the key to my art studio back home.”

She takes it from me. “You want me to have this?”

“Yes. My studio is my sanctuary, Harlow, my safe place, and I want it to be that for you too…”

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