The unfinished portrait

Fiona’s POV

I slammed the door hard behind me, pissed. But the soft breeze of the ceiling fan filled my skin, calming my nerves as I glance at it for a split second. Why is he pushing me away? I thought to myself, then, my eyes caught the portrait of him. I had started painting him with the imagination of every image of him from my dream that lingered in my head anytime i miss his touch and pissed for ignoring my feelings, it was beginning to feel like an obsession.

My brushes helplessly lying like it was begging to be touched, and the half-finished canvas that had held me captive for days.

And each time I try, I told myself It was simply a portrait study but my thoughts never stopped the tingling pull I always felt between my thighs. every shadow that shaped his jawline, betrayed me.

“I wasn’t asking for too much, you only needs to feel what I feel and ignore the outside noise, just the both of us Jalen,” I whispered to the portrait in front of me before picking up my brush to continue.

His eyes on the painting held the same quiet intensity as the real ones — dark, focused, and unreadable. I bit my lip as my brush hovered near his lips, realizing how carefully I had traced their curve, how unconsciously I had memorized them. It felt wrong. Dangerous, even. But stopping felt worse.

I chuckled.

“It’s just paint, Fiona. Just paint,” I repeated.

But my chest said otherwise.

Ever since I left his room — since he pinned me to the wall and his closeness felt like shield, since his hand brushed my skin each time he walked past me— I hadn’t been able to breathe right. when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the warmth in his gaze, the hesitation in his breath, the way he looked at me as though something sacred was about to break.

I dipped my brush into the soft peach shade, blending the color into the skin of his cheek.

“You’re insane,” I whispered to myself. “Completely insane.”

“Who are you talking to?”

I jumped. The paintbrush nearly slipped from my fingers. Paris leaned against the doorframe, her hair tied in a messy bun, eyes glinting with playful suspicion.

“Jeez, Paris! You scared me,” I groaned, setting the brush down.

She walked in, her gaze landing immediately on the canvas. “Oh my… Fi, that’s beautiful.”

My stomach clenched. “It’s nothing, just something for art class.”

“Hmm, i didn't recall getting any project such as this from any professor,” she answered, walking closer to it.

She tilted her head, examining the portrait with narrowed eyes. “Nothing? That face looks a lot like someone we both know.” she added.

I froze. “What do you mean?”

Her lips curved in a teasing smile. “Come on, don’t play innocent. You can’t fool me. That’s Professor Jalen, isn’t it?”

I turned away, pretending to reach for a towel. “Paris, please. It’s just a random model reference. I needed a masculine face with sharp angles and—”

“And you chose his face?” she interrupted, stepping closer. “Girl, if this is your idea of a random choice, then I’m the Queen of England.”

“Stop,” I muttered, heat creeping up my neck as i rubbed the back of my nape.

Paris grinned, dropping her bag on the bed. “You’re blushing, Fi. Don’t tell me something happened. Wait—” she gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened!” I said quickly, too quickly.

Her grin widened. “Oh my God, something did happen. You’re stammering. You only stammer when something serious is up.”

“How did you even know that in few weeks. Paris, for heaven’s sake, drop it.”

She laughed, sitting beside me. Her tone softened, but her eyes were still sharp. “Okay, fine. But you’ve been acting weird since the weekend. Moody. Quiet. You skip lunch. You smile at nothing sometimes. You sure you’re okay?”

I swallowed, brushing a streak of hair from my face. “I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed, maybe. Classes, assignments, new faces—it’s a lot.”

She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Uh-huh. And the fact that your art instructor happens to be stupidly handsome has nothing to do with your sudden ‘overwhelm,’ right? You do realize that he is married did you?”

I rolled my eyes, but she wasn’t entirely wrong. “You have a wild imagination, Paris.”

“Maybe,” she said with a wink, “but I also have good instincts. Just saying.”

Her phone buzzed, saving me from more interrogation. She stood up, grabbing her bag. “Alright, detective Paris is off duty for now. I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?”

“Sure,” I murmured, waving absently.

When the door clicked shut, silence settled again. I exhaled slowly, my heart still racing.

She wasn’t wrong. Every brushstroke on that painting was a confession I could never voice. Every color held a memory — his hand steadying mine, his voice low and calm, his scent lingering even after he left.

I stared at the portrait again, my throat tight.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?” I whispered to the painted face. “You’re my father’s friend… my professor. This shouldn’t even…”

The words trailed off. I couldn’t finish.

Thunder rumbled faintly outside, distant yet growing closer. The room dimmed as dark clouds rolled in. A sudden flash of lightning flickered through the curtains, flashing on the portrait—his painted eyes almost alive, watching me.

I rubbed my arms. “Great. Another rain, and now I’m talking to art.”

A knock broke through the gloomy cloud. Sharp, and insistent.

I frowned. Paris wouldn’t knock like that. Maybe Kelly decided to show up again. I thought.

I wiped my hands on a rag and walked to the door, calling, “Who is it?”

No answer.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

When i opened, my breath caught.

It wasn’t Kelly. It wasn’t Paris.

It was Jalen.

He stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his shirt slightly damp and clinging to his chest. His eyes met mine — it was dark, and unreadable, filled with something that made my pulse quicken.

“Professor?” I managed to whisper, clutching the edge of the door.

Before I could say I another word. His strong fingers tangled around my neck, pushed me in and pinned me against the wall, his other hand roamed all over my skin softly, as his tongue swirled all over my neck leaving me breathless. It was fierce and passionate, it was the most passionate I’ve ever imagined, it was nothing like what i saw in my dreams. it didn’t hurt so much, but my thighs responded with a frequent flinch.

I couldn’t stop gasping I wanted more, I pressed myself against—he swirled his tongue to my face, licking my cheek until he was close to my lips, I parted my lips, inviting him to take every inch of it but he suddenly pulled away. My heart sank, lips still parted—that was when I noticed the strong alcohol aroma lingering on my face. He was drunk.

Some part of me felt so happy that he came to me when he was drunk, I narrowed my eyes to him, taking in his whole hotness and the way his damped shirt clung to his chiseled chest.

“I’m sorry for coming by unannounced,” he said in a calm voice as we both gasp for breath. “The administration sent out the updated art submissions for the exhibition next month. I thought it’d be better to hand it to you directly since your entry was missing.”

I blinked, disoriented. “You… came all the way here for that?”

He hesitated, glancing past me at the easel. “And perhaps… to see how your ankle’s healing.”

My heart skipped. “Yeah… It’s fine now,” I said softly. “Much better.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The rain pattered harder, a steady rhythm that filled the silence.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to the canvas again — he froze.

“That’s…” His voice trailed off.

I followed his gaze and felt my blood run cold. The portrait. His face, staring back at him from my easel, immortalized in brush and color.

“I—I was just practicing,” I stammered, stepping between him and the painting. “It’s not finished yet, I—”

He looked at me, his eyes burning with something that made my knees weak.

“Fiona,” he said quietly, “why does that look so much like me?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. The air between us pulsed — thick, passionate. His hand lifted slightly, as if he meant to touch the canvas… or me.

My voice trembled. “Because I can’t stop seeing you, even when I close my eyes.”

He raised his hand, touching the canvas slightly.

“It's still wet,” he muttered.

“Yes… just as I am right now,”

The rain soaked the rest of my words, but he heard them — I could see it in the way his breath caught, in the way his jaw tightened as though fighting something inside.

And then, in the heavy silence, the door banged open and we both flinched.