Chapter 3

Vivienne Kane turned the key and pushed the door open at 3:37 p.m.

Music came out immediately—indie rock, loud bass, guitars ringing clear. The apartment was bright from sunlight coming through big windows. A leather couch sat against one wall. A large TV was mounted above the fireplace. The dining table was covered with protein powder containers and one rugby boot lying on its side like someone had kicked it off.

The air smelled like fresh coffee, garlic cooking on the stove, and clean soap with a hint of grass.

A man turned from the kitchen.

He was tall—six-foot-four—broad shoulders, dirty-blond hair still wet from the shower. He wore a faded hoodie that fit tight across his chest. Sleeves rolled up. He was stirring a pot of sauce and humming quietly.

He looked at her and smiled—a big, warm smile with deep dimples. His lower lip was still cut from the hit and there was a small bruise on his jaw, but the smile still looked kind and easy.

“Hey,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel over his shoulder. “You must be Vivi. I’m Asher. Welcome.”

Vivi stopped in the doorway. She held her portfolio tubes so tight the cardboard made a small creaking sound. Her hood was up, dark hair falling out around her face. Her gray eyes narrowed. Small paint spots were on her cheek. Her overalls were stained with old colors over a black long-sleeve shirt.

“This is temporary,” she said. Her voice was low and sharp. “No friends. No talking. I need quiet and space. Act like I’m not here. I have important work to do. Don’t disturb me. Okay?”

Asher’s smile didn’t disappear, but his eyes changed a little—curious, interested. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“Okay,” he said in a calm voice. “But just so you know, I’m not good at acting like people aren’t there. Especially when they’re living right next to me.”

He pointed down the short hallway. “Second door on the left. I cleared out the rugby stuff this morning. There’s good light in there for your work.”

Vivi didn’t answer. She stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

The apartment now smelled more like him–warm and close. She walked past the couch and TV without looking and went straight to the room.

It was small but bright. Sunlight came through a tall window. The walls were empty. The bed was made with clean sheets. There was an empty desk and a closet. No mess. He had cleaned it up.

She leaned her portfolio tubes against the wall carefully. Then she set her suitcases down. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment, breathing slowly to calm her heart. This was only six weeks. She could handle six weeks. She had handled worse things before.

She opened one suitcase, took out her easel, and set it up under the window. She placed her canvas on it—piece thirteen, still plain white and waiting. She lined up her brushes from smallest to biggest. She opened her paints and set up her palette. She moved quietly, putting everything in its place, making the room feel like hers again.

In the living room, Asher turned the music down a little—not off, just softer. He put pasta on two plates. He left one on the counter with a fork beside it. No note. Then he sat on the couch with his own plate, scrolled on his phone, and acted like he wasn’t listening for any sounds from her room.

Time passed. The sun went down. Night came. Vivi painted until her shoulders hurt and her eyes felt tired. At 1:14 a.m., she was still at the easel, adding the last few strokes to the canvas. She had the main light off already, working only under the small desk lamp to save her eyes from the bright overhead glow. The room felt cozy in the low light, but she was starting to feel the pull of sleep.

Asher was still awake in the living room. He sat in the dark with his phone down, listening to the quiet sounds from her room—the soft brush on canvas, small sighs, the light rustle when she moved.

He saw the light under her door was still on—dim but steady from the desk lamp. He stood up quietly.

He walked down the hallway in his socks and stopped at her door.

A thin line of warm light came out from underneath.

He knew he shouldn’t look.

He looked anyway.

Through the small gap where the door didn’t close all the way, he saw her standing at the easel, back to him, still in her overalls, brush in hand, painting under the soft desk lamp light. He couldn’t see the canvas, but the way she moved—strong, focused, a little shaky from being tired—hit him hard.

His heart stopped for three full seconds.

Then it started again, beating fast and loud in his chest.

He stepped back carefully, went to his room, and lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

In her room, Vivi felt a small chill on the back of her neck—like someone had been watching.

She paused her brush for a second.

She didn’t turn around.

She didn’t say anything.

She kept painting for a few more minutes to finish the stroke she was on.

Then she stopped, washed her brushes carefully, put her paints away, and turned the desk lamp off. The room went dark. She lay on the bed in her clothes and stared at the ceiling.

She knew someone had been there.

She knew he had looked.

And for the first time in many years, that thought didn’t make her want to hide or stop.

It made her want to keep going.