Page 117 of Ruins
She gasps, startled, her brush slipping from her fingers, a streak of paint splashing against her smock. “Santo.” My name is barely a breath, a whisper that curls in the air between us.
She doesn’t get the chance to say more before I cross the room in long, urgent strides. My gaze drops to the canvas, and the moment I take it in, my breath catches in my throat.
It’s raw. It’s beautiful. It’sus.
I reach out, my fingers ghosting over the edge of the canvas, drawn in by the emotions she’s bared in each brushstroke. The colors blend into something hauntingly intimate—passion, longing, reverence.
“Is this…” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“Our first kiss.”
I drag my gaze away from the painting, meeting her eyes. There’s something flickering in them—admiration, maybe, but laced with uncertainty, shyness. A quiet vulnerability she’s offering me in this moment.
My fingers twitch with the need to touch her, to pull her close, to feel what she’s painted with my own hands. Instead, I reach out gently, caressing her cheek. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft beneath my touch. Her eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment before she meets my gaze again.
“Is this new?” I murmur.
She shrugs, pink blooming across her cheeks. “Yes. I just started it today.” Her voice shakes slightly, as if unsure of how I’ll react.
I inhale deeply, allowing the scent of paint and her to fill my lungs. There’s something so familiar about it, so uniquely hers, that it aches inside me.
“I…” The words fail me for a second, my throat tightening. I clear it softly. “It’s beautiful. Just like you.”
Her lashes flutter, her lips parting slightly as she gazes up at me. She looks so vulnerable standing there, so delicate. But those eyes—those brilliant, unyielding eyes—reveal a strength that has me reeling.
I swallow hard. “But why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why paint this?”
She bites her lower lip, considering. Then, in a voice as soft as silk, she murmurs, “Why do artists ever create, Santo?”
She reaches out, her fingers tracing the contours of the painting—of us—with such care it steals the breath from my lungs.
“To express their feelings.” The answer comes automatically, though my own chest tightens at the weight of what she’s telling me.
A wistful smile tugs at her lips as she nods. “And these are mine.” She motions to the painting again.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s filled with something deeper, something neither of us wants to break just yet.
My gaze stays on her, on the quiet sincerity in her expression, on the way she’s still so open despite everything.
“I’m not tired anymore.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Really?”
I nod, reaching out, sliding my fingers between hers. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she relaxes into my touch, the warmth of her hand settling something restless inside me.
“Really.” I search her face, wanting this moment—this truce—to last a little longer. “Why don’t we have some dessert?”
She tilts her head, eyes brightening. “Can we have cupcakes?”
I exhale a quiet chuckle.She could ask for a whole damn bakery and I’d give it to her.
“We can have whatever you’d like.”
I lead her out of the library, her hand still in mine. For the first time tonight, the storm inside me quiets.
In the kitchen, she wastes no time raiding Julian’s stash of cupcakes, plating one for each of us. The way she devours hers makes me question how I ever thought she didn’t eat enough. Her delicate fingers hold the cupcake with a care that contradicts the hunger in her movements, and when she hums in satisfaction, something primal stirs in me.
She finishes the last bite, and my gaze catches on the smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, I reach out, my thumb swiping it away. She stills, her breath hitching, her wide eyes locking onto mine.
