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"Don't worry. I'm a professional." She smirks at me, then deliberately returns to her sketching.

I return her smirk. "It's reassuring to know I haven't permanently deterred you from portraiture."

"I must be more resilient than you thought."

"No—I recognized you were tough the day we met."

"Two days ago, then," she says, shaking her head. "Sorry—can I focus? I want to complete the primary piece and then compile my list of finishing touches for later."

"Certainly. Coffee, anyone?"

"Yes, please," Mom responds.

"Fine," Sienna concedes. She glances at me, her firm expression momentarily softening into a smile when she notices my smirk. Then she quickly suppresses it. She can't resist smiling at me. That feels like a victory, however inappropriate.

In the kitchen, I prepare coffee. By the time I’m done, Sienna walks in. "I'll compile my notes after coffee," she announces. "I need time to..." She twirls her finger near her temple, mimicking the universal gesture for going nuts.

"Mother tells me you're extraordinarily talented, even beyond her expectations."

I pull out her chair. She looks down, then smiles and sits. When I push her in, her back presses against my hands, where I grip the chair. A simple, possibly innocent gesture.

But I feel it. And so does she. She emits a soft moan. I softly rest my hand on her shoulder.

"I didn't say I wanted you to do that," she whispers, breathless and alluring.

"You didn't need to," I growl.

"Nico..."

I move to the edge of the table, leaning down until our eyes meet. With a smile, I say, "I'm almost tempted to simply kiss you so we can dispel this tension."

She laughs quietly. "I understand the sentiment."

I move toward her, grazing her lips for the briefest moment, not quite a kiss, almost a kiss. But she abruptly withdraws. My mother enters the kitchen. I straighten up.

Either my mother didn't notice or was pretending not to. My heart pounds. Sienna wraps her arms around herself. We're likely sharing the same thought. How did that nearly happen so effortlessly? Wanting a genuine relationship with her is complicated, wrong. It's impossible, given her animosity and my position.

But desiring her is another matter entirely. My body harbors no confusion. Every fiber of my being hungers to claim every inch of her.

"I had a little preview," Mom says, joining Sienna at the table. "Exceptional work. I'm eager to see what you accomplish with paints."

"That's where I've been experimenting with my surrealist concepts."

"Your... portmanteau?"

"Yes," Sienna confirms. "Incorporating elements from different paintings and transforming them into one entity... and many entities. Not to sound pretentious."

"It doesn't sound pretentious," I assure her.

She smiles at me briefly, then blows on her coffee.

"Just like life," Mother observes. "You take certain elements from various sources and hope everything fits together... that it becomes coherent, allowing you to relinquish control and embrace happiness."

Sienna stares at my mother for several moments. "Live in the moment, you mean?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The only way to find happiness when aspects of your painting cause misery is to live in the moment. Letting go essentially means forgetting. Or ignoring."