Page 153 of Celestial Combat

I leaned into him and pressed my lips to his, soft and slow.

My eyes slid back to the bookshelf, where an old sketchbook sat – half-hidden under a stack of cookbooks. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, brush scratches echoing through the quiet loft.

The cover was simple, stiff traditional Japanese paper, worn at the edges. I opened it to the first page and gasped. Intricate black-ink drawings sprawled across the cream sheets: graceful dragons twisting among cherry blossoms, elegant calligraphy flowing down the page – poems or proverbs, I couldn’t read them all. My fingers traced the dragon’s scales, each one shaded by hand, the ink alive in the soft afternoon light.

I turned the page slowly and froze.

A woman’s back in ink – hair pulled to the side, curling over smooth skin, delicate tattoos trailing down her spine. The lines were subtle yet precise, the way the muscles curved beneath the shoulder blades captured perfectly. The chestnut curls of hair, held up just so… There was no mistaking it.

It was me.

My heart hammered. I turned a little, catching Zane’s gaze across the room. He watched me quietly, quiet light stroking his cheekbones.

“You drew me?” I whispered, breath thick.

His face flushed – heat blooming along his cheeks and ears. “I draw what I find beautiful.”

I flipped back to the sketch. “How did you get this much detail in the sauna?” I kept my voice steady, but my fingers shook over the page.

He slid the sketchbook closer and stepped beside me, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his jeans against mine. “I didn’t… I kept going back,” he said, voice low, “Until I had the entire image.”

My fingers hovered over the drawing, stroking the paper where his lines had traced every curve and shadow. I swallowed, feeling something open inside me – something tender and exposed.

I smiled, softly, shy – like I was discovering him all over again. “You really went back that many times?”

His lips curved, gentle pride shining behind his calm. “Yeah.”

I closed the sketchbook and looked up at him, his chest warm and steady against my side. The afternoon light had shifted; the room felt softer, quieter, wrapped in the gentle pulse of shared secrets.

In that moment, I didn’t need words. Not when everything he’d drawn – every inked line – spoke across time and space, straight to me.

I smiled to myself, warm and a little shy, then turned the page back to the sketchbook, letting the paper whisper beneath my fingertips.

The next drawing stopped me.

It was me again. A soft profile – my nose, my lips slightly parted, and a curtain of curls falling forward, veiling half my face. The way he captured the strands of my hair, like ink draped over shadow, was unreal. The kind of detail you only get from staring too long. From knowing someone too well.

I flipped again.

And again.

Me.

Each page, another part of me. Another moment.

One where I was scowling, caught mid-glare across the kitchen island – my arms crossed, jaw tight. I remembered that day. We’d barely spoken. I was furious at him for something I couldn’t even remember now. But he’d been quiet on the couch,his pen moving steadily. I thought he was journaling. Turns out… He was drawing me.

I turned the page again.

There I was, submerged in water – only my eyes above the surface. Watching. Still. Sharp. My curls floated around me like seaweed. The memory came back instantly.

The next pages were blank.

I let my palm rest on the empty paper. I didn’t speak right away. Just looked at it, breathing slow.

“Were you ever going to show me these?” I asked quietly, my voice filling the warm, quiet loft.

Across from me, Zane rubbed the back of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes avoided mine.