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"I'm sorry," he says, like he really believes that that's the only thing bothering me. "I hate that you're having to do so much of that alone. I can talk to the guys—we're pretty caught up with stuff right now. They can probably spare me for a bit if you want a hand…?"

That is definitelynotwhat I want. The canvases I've been working on are too private, too intimate. They're a fucking therapy session done in blue and red and black, is what they are.I'm not ready to show them to anyone. Definitely not to one of the guys who's helped inspire them.

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. It's—It's stuff I have to do. Does that make sense?"

His face softens. "Yeah."

In a rush, I remember that part of why we're here, in this giant house, is because his parents passed a few years ago.

So, yeah. He knows.

He squeezes my shoulder, then pulls me in for a hug. "Just remember—the offer stands. Anything you need."

"Of course."

They've been clear about that to a fault. It's one of the reasons my current mood feels like a betrayal. They've all been so incredibly kind. How dare I be ungrateful?

How dare I not believe them?

How can I still be sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for this to fall apart?

I close my eyes shut tight and cling to him. Then I force out the question that's been plaguing me all this while.

"What do I do when my sabbatical runs out?"

Cayden's breath stutters. For a second, I think it stops, but it's just gone shallow, his body stiff. "What do you want to happen?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"How long do you have left?"

"About a month."

He hugs me tighter. "That doesn't sound like even close to enough."

It really doesn't. Not to finish the work at my grandmother's house, or the body of work I've started as an artist. It's definitely not enough to time to explore the connection I've found with these men. We've barely scratched the surface on that.

When he speaks again, it's calculated, like he's considering every word. "You know you're welcome here as long as you want."

"I know. But my job…" My life, such as it was.

"We'd figure something out. We have plenty here—you wouldn't have to work at all, if you didn't want to. You could get back to painting, or…something."

I shake my head, burying it against his shoulder. "You can't mean that."

"How could I not?"

The idea of relying on other people for my living has never sat right with me. I've always wanted my own money, my own life. If I'd found the right partner, someday, maybe I could have imagined it. If we'd decided to have kids… The work of a wife and mother is real.

The work of an artist, being shared among five guys?

It sounds like an offer of freedom. But in my heart, it feels like a trap.

"Just." Cayden's throat bobs, the motion hot against my cheek. "Think about it. I know I speak for everyone here. We don't want to let you go."

Not yet, they don't.

But the last time I thought I'd found someone who wanted to keep me, I was sorely, sorely mistaken.