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The thick, heavy wood of it greeted us along with the half-dozen faded stickers that usually adorned the decks of skateboards. My street art style doodles, faded with age, accompanied the peeling paint. I drew in a slow breath, fighting the thoughts about leading her into a teenager's room, as my mind tried to devalue my current earthly existence.

The window, despite its braded security bars, shed dim light over the navy-blue blanket covering my neatly made bed. For the first time this century, my clothes sat on hangers, neatly aligned on the industrial metal bar that stuck out from the brickface in the corner. Immediately, her eyes slid upward toward the ceiling and the enormous mural that I'd worked on years ago. Some of the paint flaked in places from age, but the comic-book style piece was the last thing I saw every night. One panel, a terrestrial seascape, sat beside another full of lush green blooms, capturing the visage of peace brought by the tiny glimpses of nature I'd fantasized about as a young person.

Clem said nothing, her expression almost blank as she stared wide-eyed as if taking in every centimeter of the space. I sat down on the bed with my back facing the wall where the rings of Saturn disappeared behind my pillow propped against the wall. Minutes passed, deadly minutes that had me picking at my nails again. Clem took a step closer to me, nudging my hands down before she slowly lowered herself to sit beside me.

"Wow," was all she said.

"Wow? What wow?"

"Your art. It's incredible."

"It's old stuff…"

"It's good stuff." She finally turned to me, and the still-face she carried before lifted into a broad smile. "I love it."

"Thank you." My cheeks burned with heat when she held my gaze suddenly. The intensity of it, the sheer force of her eye contact bore into me like nothing ever before, and I never wanted to look away.

For once, she held it, allowing herself to settle beside me as if she'd never seen me before. Her gaze flickered over my face, to my lips, then back to my eyes, and she smiled. I reached across the space between us to stroke my finger over the curve of her cheek. She leaned into it, nuzzling my hand before kissing my knuckle.

"I really like your room," she said, her voice soft. She scooted back on the bed, leaning against the wall with her boot-covered feet dangling off the edge. Her purse found its way to the floor beside my skateboard, and I joined her, mirroring her posture.

"Thanks."

We both looked up to the ceiling again, as if stargazing on a night filled with shooting stars. Our hands, on the bed between us, entangled to grasp each other's fingers. Clem rested her head on my shoulder, and a sort of calmness found us. In my room, of brick, stone, and old wood, no sounds from the kitchen or common areas made their way in unless someone shouted or guffawed with laughter. The quiet, and near silence of the space was what attracted me to it in the first place. Tati's loft, open and exposed, shared all of its aspects with the main part of the apartment. Mine, however, shared exactly none. It was my own hideaway of sorts, where I could control the light, the noise, and the simulation. It also had great acoustics for music because of the taller ceiling. Clem seemed to relax into the energy of my room the same way I did, and the solace of it cradled us both.

Tati's knock on the door broke the moment along with her beckon.

"Dinner's almost ready and Frankie's here," she whispered after I welcomed her entry.

"Thanks for the warning." I smirked and glanced at Clem.

"I will be fine," she said, her eyes dropping to stare at Tati's rattan shoes. "I can throw a punch with perfect precision."

Tatiana laughed, her expression brightening with it. "Well then, we're all set. Come on then."

I nodded, and we slid from the bed together, our hands detangling then. I stepped to the door and opened it for her, but we both stood there in a strange pause. My eyes scanned her expression, but it flattened a bit the way it does when I noticed she experienced stress.

"What's wrong?"

"Are we supposed to hold hands or not hold hands?" she asked, her gaze flickering at me once then toward the others in the kitchen ahead. "No one else is."

"We can do whatever makes us comfortable. They're too involved in eating and conversation to hold hands right now, but we're not." I held my hand to her then. "Only if you want to."

"Okay. I want to." She took it without a second thought it seemed, and we headed to the kitchen together.

The noise volume increased exponentially with Frankie's arrival. As always, she demanded attention with both her personality as much as her style. She exchanged a few physical shoves with Wyatt, who rolled with it as usual, before handing her a glass of red wine. She winked at him, then turned when Tati's mother called her name. Right away, she calmed down when she ushered her over to the stove to show her what she cooked.

Tati met my gaze and smiled, waving us forward. We joined her and she handed each of us a glass of wine as well.

"Obrigada," piped Clem as she lifted her glass to Tati in thanks.

"De nada. Getting hungry?" She glanced between us. I shrugged, but Clem nodded.

"I'm always hungry," she said, a smile tugging the corner of her mouth. In my hand, her fingers tightened and I returned the gesture, unsure if she meant to soothe me or if she needed comforting herself.

Eventually, Frankie and Mrs. Silva returned to the table before Wyatt was called over for a taste test. Reagan bounced along behind him. So much shuffling and movement overwhelmed me, probably because I worried about the first words to fly out of Frankie's mouth.

"Hey, Clem." Frankie completely ignored me, and her narrowed eyes landed on Clementine.