Strokes Of Tension

I tell myself this is fine. That I don't care.

We haven't even started, and I just want to get this assignment over with.

Still, as I stand in front of my closet, staring at my options too sexy, too comfortable, I realize I'm overthinking.

Come on, it's just Brian. Nothing else.

I finally settle on sweatpants and a crop top, brush my hair, swipe on some gloss, and head out before I can change my mind.

It's just an assignment. Just a stupid painting. Just Brian.

And yet, here I am, standing outside his house, my heart pounding like I just ran a marathon. I shouldn't be nervous. I shouldn't even be here. But my dad had people over, and Brian being Brian insisted we do this at his place.

I take a deep breath and knock.

The door swings open almost instantly.

Brian leans against the doorframe like he was expecting me, arms crossed, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. His hair is messier than usual, and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the veins along his forearms.

"You're late," he says. Smirking.

"By three minutes," I deadpan, shoving past him before I do something dumb like stare at his arms for too long.

His house feels different. It used to be warm, filled with noise, with life. Now it's… hollow. Cold. Like a place someone exists in, not lives in.

Brian shuts the door behind me. "Make yourself at home."

"Let's just get this over with."

We head upstairs to his room, and the shift is even more unsettling. The walls are a light blue now, the bookshelf is gone, replaced with a reading table completely empty. But what catches my eye the most is the setup in the middle of the room. Three blank canvases, propped up on stands, with paint supplies neatly arranged.

I raise a brow. "Why three?"

"For ideas before we paint the final piece," he says.

I groan. "That's gonna take forever."

"So we finish it tomorrow."

"I'm busy tomorrow."

"Then we do it another day."

I fold my arms. "Why do I feel like you're dragging this out?"

Brian shrugs, too casual. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about"

"It's official your crazy" he says smiling

I huff. "Fine. Let's just start."

Brian steps closer too close. "Any ideas?"

I hesitate. 

He grins. "Relax, Blue. I meant on the canvas."

"Of course, I knew that" I say trying to be casual 

Then, with a smirk, I grab my pink lip gloss and apply a fresh coat. "Yeah. We could just paint the whole thing with kisses," I joke, leaning down and pressing my lips against the blank canvas.

I glance at Brian, expecting him to roll his eyes, maybe laugh.

But he doesn't.

His expression darkens.

He stands abruptly, shaking his head. "No."

I blink. "No"

"No, That's too easy." His gaze drags over me, slow, assessing. "Passion isn't just flames and bright colors, Blue. It's messy. It's something that burns."

Something in the way he says it sends a shiver through me.

I force a scoff. "Oh, so now you're an artist?"

He tilts his head. "You forgot already?"

Before I can question it, he moves. Grabs a brush, dips it into black paint, and starts painting. His strokes are effortless, deliberate.

And I hate that it stuns me.

"You still do this?" I ask quietly.

His eyes stay on the canvas. "I never stopped."

Something about that makes my stomach tighten.

I grab my own brush. "Fine. Let's just get this done."

But as soon as I start, Brian leans in.

I stiffen as his hand comes up, fingers brushing against mine, guiding my wrist. His breath ghosts over my cheek, and my brain short-circuits.

"Loosen your grip," he murmurs.

I swallow hard. "I know how to hold a brush."

He smirks. "Could've fooled me."

I whip my head toward him, ready to shove him away, but he's already watching me. Not with amusement but with something else. Something heavy.

The room is too quiet. Too charged.

I splatter paint across my canvas. "Painting's boring. It's too quiet."

Brian chuckles, but his gaze lingers on my face. "You got something—" His hand lifts, fingertips grazing just under my eye.

And for a moment, neither of us move.

His eyes darken. Like he's remembering something.

Then he lets go.

The moment shatters.

I clear my throat, stepping back like my body wasn't just on fire. I grab a rag and throw it at him. "Shut up and paint."

Brian smirks but doesn't push it.

For the next hour, we work in silence. But it's not peaceful. It's thick, charged. Every time I move, I feel him. Every time he shifts, I catch myself looking. It's infuriating.

And then, just as I'm finishing a stroke, Brian speaks.

"Do you still hate me?"

I freeze.

The question is quiet. Unexpected.

I don't turn around. "What do you think?"

He exhales. "I think… if you did, you wouldn't be here."

"Well I have to be here remember?"

I grip my brush tighter, refusing to look at him.

Because he's right.

And that's the worst part.

But then

Brian suddenly stops painting. Steps back. His jaw tightens like he's debating something.

Then he exhales, voice low.

 "That night. Before I left."

Everything in me goes still.

I turn slowly. "What about it?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at me, gaze heavy, lips parting like he's about to say something

Then his phone buzzes.

His expression shifts immediately. Darkens.

He glances at the screen, jaw clenching.

Without a word, he moves. Walks to the closet, shoves his painting inside, and locks it.

What the hell?

He grabs his jacket, already heading for the door.

I blink. "Brian where are you going?"

"Gotta go." His tone is clipped, distracted.

"Wait" But before I can stop him, the door slams shut behind him.

I stare at the space where he stood, frustration bubbling in my chest.

Not only do we have an unfinished project but an unfinished conversation.

And now, all I can think about is that damn locked canvas.