The brush slips just slightly when I trace the outer petal. I pause, steadying my wrist. Zoey hasn't said anything in the past five minutes, but I can feel her eyes on me like sunlight filtered through tree leaves—warm and patient.
Around us, Willowglen Park begins to stir louder. A group of kids rush past in squeaky sneakers. The sound of distant barking cuts through the birdsong. Somewhere nearby, someone strums a guitar lazily. And yet, within the space around this stone table and tripod, the world feels slowed. Gentle. Like a preserved pocket of spring morning just for us.
I exhale and sit back, stretching my fingers. They're sticky with paint, tinged red and pink. "You good?" Zoey asks, walking over with her camera pressed to her chest.
I nod. "Just need a break. My neck's stiff."
"I got you." She digs into her tote and hands me a small plastic bottle of lavender mist. "You look like you could use this."