Page 8 of A Virgo's Muse
I operated in the shadows, where no one asked questions, where people like me didn’t get to hold on to things that shined too bright.
And Desire? She was a sunbeam in a locked room. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to open the door or just enjoy the warmth before it faded.
I got tired of watching her from across the street. Got tired of wondering if I could be man enough to stand in her light without breaking. So, I popped my trunk, lifted the sculpture from the back, and carried it across the street.
My boots echoed down the sidewalk. One thump after the next, like fate finally caught up. I reached the front door, ready to knock, but it was unlocked. Of course, it was. She never locked her doors. She was too trusting, too her. I stepped inside, and the chime above the door made her jump.
She turned just as I entered, startled, and dropped the jar of dirty paint water she’d been holding. It shattered, spreading mud-colored liquid across the floor. Her body stiffened.
“The hell, Onyx!” she snapped, eyes wide. “You just ghost me for weeks and pop up like… like this? Just because you came unannounced once doesn’t give you a free invitation to make it a routine.”
I said nothing at first. Just stood there with the sculpture in my hands, heart thudding louder than her music.
“You good?” I asked softly, stepping over the broken glass.
She crossed her arms. “I was.”
I looked around. Her studio was chaotic but alive, like a storm had passed and left behind blooming wildflowers.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.
“You didn’t scare me,” she shot back. “You just… disappeared.”
Her voice cracked on that last word. Barely, but I heard it. I stepped closer, holding the sculpture between us.
“I made something for you,” I murmured. “Thought you might want to see it.”
She eyed it warily, but her arms dropped. Her gaze softened as I handed it to her, a sculpture of a woman carved with deliberate detail, pouring water from one hand into a small basin at her feet. But the twist was the basin overflowed and circled back into her body. She was pouring into herself while pouring into others.
Desire didn’t speak. She just stared at the piece like it unlocked something she didn’t know she needed. Her fingers moved delicately over the sculpture’s curves, the arcs, the flow of it, the balance between giving and receiving. I watched her chest rise and fall slowly, like the sculpture was pulling breath from her lungs.
I knew who Desire was before I laid eyes on her at the art gallery. Her artwork was something I studied late nights and dissected. I even watched some footage of her at different galleries. She floated through rooms like she was the one hosting the event. At the end of each video, they thanked her for going above and beyond and for her dedication. For coming in early to help them set up or staying later to make sure everything was in order.
“I call itReciprocity,” I said, my voice low but firm. “Because that’s what you do. You pour into everyone around you, even when you’re running on empty. I wanted to show you what it looks like when the pouring starts with you.”
She blinked, swallowing hard. Her eyes lifted to mine, glassy and full of questions.
“Why would you make this?” she whispered.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Because I’ve been watching you. Listening, even when you weren’t speaking.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “That sounds… kind of stalker-ish, Onyx.”
There was a flicker of amusement in her voice, but I didn’t laugh. I stepped closer.
“Maybe,” I said, standing directly in front of her now. “But you’re not the kind of woman a man can forget. You stick.”
Desire’s gaze flicked to my lips then away.
“And what happens when I stick to the wrong man? What happens when I start leaning on someone and they move? What happens when I stop holding everyone up… and there’s no one left to hold me?”
That question… it cracked something in me. Because I’d heard that kind of ache before but never from someone so put together, so composed, so tired beneath it all. I stepped closer slowly until I was in her space.
“You don’t have to hold it all together, Desire. Not tonight.”
She tried to look away, but I reached up gently, brushing a streak of white paint from her cheek with my thumb. Her skin was soft and warm beneath the smudge. Her breath caught.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.
