Page 34 of King of Pain

“Definitely,” I say, standing to walk her to the door.

She kneels to give Little G one last scratch behind the ears. “Bye, buddy. Be good for your dad.”

I roll my eyes.

“You’re sooo daddy,” she draws out with a grin, grabbing her bag.

“No, Lexi. Just, no.”

“Bye, loser!”

“Bye, Lex,” I say, watching her disappear into her apartment two doors down.

After closing my door, I lean against it and blow out a breath.

A laugh escapes me as I reflect on Lexi teasing me about Ant leaving this morning.

Honestly, I wish her assumption was right. I glance at the couch, where he crashed last night. I wonder what time he left and why I didn’t wake up when he did. More importantly, I wonder what I’m going to do about this growing crush. The beautiful, shy, mildly grumpy Italian has officially taken over my thoughts.

After taking Little G out to do his business, he flops onto the couch with a dramatic huff, his tail thumping lazily against the cushions. Unlike him, I can’t seem to settle. Lexi’s words keep bouncing around in my head, refusing to let me relax.

It seems Lexi clocked me rather quickly, even though I haven’t had the “boys, girls, or both?”conversation with her yet. I’ve never had that talk withanyoneabout myself. With my ex, Christian, it wasn’t necessary. We’d known each other for years before we just kind of ended up in bed together.

And anyone else? They were from gay hookup apps, where being attracted to men was fairly a given. It’s not like I’ve ever had to sit down and spell it out. But I came out here partially to… come out. I need to make a more conscious effort, aside from blatantly flirting with a certain hot coworker.

I pad barefoot into my bedroom for a shirt. While tossing my drawers for the concert shirt I want to wear, I glance at the corner of the room where I’d stashed my art supplies after the trip to the store. The unopened sketchpad, the set of charcoal pencils, the smudging tools—it’s all just sitting there, waiting.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself, moving to grab the supplies. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I clear off the coffee table and set everything up methodically. Little G watches me with mild curiosity, lifting his head briefly before deciding my activities don’t involve him. I unpack the sketchpad first, running my fingers over the smooth, thick paper. The charcoal pencils come next, their black dust staining my fingertips as I pick one up and examine it.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I prop the sketchpad on my knee and hold the charcoal pencil loosely in my hand. I stare at the blank page—the empty space taunting me to fill it.

What do I want to draw?

The answer comes to me immediately, though I hesitate to acknowledge it. I could try to sketch anything, really. A landscape, an object, something simple to ease myself into this. But no. What I really want to draw is him.

Ant.

Without thinking, I press the charcoal to the paper, starting with light, hesitant strokes. The shape of his face comes first. The worried forehead, the subtle angles of his cheekbones, the gentle slope of his nose. I pause, squinting at the lines, trying to picture him as clearly as possible.

The curve of his lips is next. My hand moves slower here. I would spend days kissing, sucking and chewing those full lips if he’d let me. The charcoal glides over the paper as I try to capture the way his mouth quirks when he’s amused or how it softens when he’s lost in thought.

The eyes, though, they’re the hardest. I hover over the page, the pencil poised but not moving. How do you draw something that feels so complex? So layered?

I glance at Little G, who’s now sprawled out on the couch, completely uninterested in my artistic struggles. “This is harder than I thought,” I say, half to him and half to myself.

But I keep going. The charcoal smudges easily, creating shadows that give the drawing depth. I add the dark waves of his hair, the slight stubble that always seems to shadow his jaw. My fingers are covered in black dust now, but I kind of love it.

When I finally sit back and look at what I’ve created, my heart skips a beat.

It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but it’s him. Or at least, it’s close enough that anyone who knows him would recognize the face on the page. I’m out of practice, but this isn’t half bad.

Then the realization hits me like a freight train: I didn’t need a reference photo. I didn’t need him sitting in front of me. His image is already burned into my mind, as clear and vivid as if he were here.

And that scares me.

What am I doing?