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It was a sketch of Rai, not the pose they’d chosen for the painting but another stolen moment.

He’d been sulking about something or other—ah, now she remembered.

She’d made a joke about his clothing, the flimsy silk fae trousers he’d agreed to wear for her just once, except they’d been utterly sinful, the way they draped over his hips and his ass and his— And he’d been pouty, thinking she thought him unmanly, and she’d asked him to freeze, pout and all.

He had been seduction personified, sleek muscles and smooth silk and sultry face, and she’d captured him as swiftly as possible before pressing him down into the cushions and—

She glanced guiltily at Heather, who was watching her with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” she said more forcefully. “This drawing is for sale.”

“You,” Heather said, “are a stronger woman than I.”

“I thought you were—”

“I am. But I have eyes .” Heather grinned impishly. “You are not telling me that Rai is entirely cishet.”

Did fae even adhere to human gender definitions? “He’s just Rai.”

“So he is.” Heather’s voice turned brisk. “So I have the paperwork for Hummingbird here. If you’ll just—”

“ Hummingbird ?” Poppy glanced at the wall and back down. “I thought it was Flying . You sold Hummingbird weeks ago.” She’d seen it in Rai’s hands last. The thought made her wince in remembered pain.

“Oh! So we did.” Heather laughed, a trifle awkwardly. “You know, you’ve just had so many pieces come through lately… Just sign here. And I’ll get your money.”

Poppy glanced at the paperwork, but it said Flying , had her signature, and… It didn’t matter. She’d sold a piece. One hundred buckaroos. She signed the paper at the bottom with a bold, defiant flourish.

Heather was looking at the new drawing. “You know, he came in here a couple weeks ago.”

“I’m sure.” Poppy was proud of herself for not flinching. “He had to come in, didn’t he? ”

“Not to buy anything.” Heather’s eyes flickered away, back. “He didn’t give me any money. But he was…” She suddenly placed her hand over Poppy’s. “Are you sure you’re ready to part with this? That you’re…done? He was kinda pathetic.”

“Yes,” Poppy said stiffly. “He’s good at that.”

Heather searched her face for a moment, then smiled. “Got it. Anyhow, here’s the paperwork for the new one, plus your payment for… Flying. ” She slid a form across the table along with a stack of bills.

Poppy made herself smile back and started to fill out the paperwork signing the sketch of Rai away.

Artist name, address, phone number, check.

Name of piece… She thought for a long moment before inspiration struck and she wrote Storm.

It had been his fakey last name; now it could be a farewell of sorts.

Maybe a tribute. She hesitated hardly at all before writing the same price she’d written for all her other drawings.

One hundred dollars. She hated pricing her own work—it either felt like too much or not enough, no matter where she landed. Best to keep it simple.

Even if part of her wanted to fill that space with priceless .

She signed the paper with a flourish, slid it across the table, and picked up the cash to count it. “Thank you for…” She frowned. Twenty, twenty, twenty, twenty…ten. “Wasn’t the last one a hundred?”

Heather glanced from the money to Poppy’s face and back again. “Yes?”

“This is…”

“And then there’s a ten percent commission.”

“But Rai…” Poppy stared at the money, still confused.

“Oh.” Heather waved a hand in the air. “Sorry. I know you’re used to… Maybe I wasn’t clear earlier. When your boyfriend stopped in a couple weeks ago, he didn’t buy anything.”

“He…didn’t…” Poppy cast another glance at the money in her hands. Twenty, twenty, twenty, twenty, ten.

“I should have given you this first.” Heather slid a business card across the table. “The lady who bought this comes in a few times a week. She really wanted to get the hummingbird piece when it was on display back in August, but…” She ducked her head, searching Poppy’s face. “Everything okay?”

“You took out the commission.” Her heart felt suddenly light.

Heather looked embarrassed. “Well, I mean, it’s a business. Not everyone’s going to be, um, a sucker. ”

Poppy picked up the business card. Galeria de las Lluvias. She didn’t recognize the name at the bottom of the card. “I’ve never heard of this gallery. Is it…?”

“Legit?” Heather nodded. “You remember Talia? She’s got a show opening this November.

It’s new, but I had a look at her contract.

It’s solid.” She hesitated, then leaned across the table.

“I told this woman you’d been working on some paintings, and she said she really wanted to talk to you.

You said that’s what you were doing, right? ”

“Sort of.” Poppy’s heart sank. Just one painting.

“Well, give her a call. She was really interested. Like, really. I guess she’s been keeping an eye on your stuff for the past month or so.

I told your boyfriend it would pay off to let it hang longer.

He wanted to take them right away so he could be all moony fanboy, but when I said it wouldn’t be fair to you—”

Poppy laughed. She couldn’t help it.

Heather looked at her for a long moment, face suddenly serious.

“I… I don’t know what happened with you guys,” she said at last. “But you could do a lot worse than a guy who wants to help pay the bills, and on top of that thinks you draw like Leonardo da Vinci, Georgia O’Keefe, and Jesus rolled into one. ”

“Yeah,” Poppy agreed. “I could do a lot worse.” She looked at the drawing on the table between them, wanting to trace the curve of Rai’s pout but managing to hold back.

Barely. I desired them , he had said. I desired them, and I wished you to not be unhappy.

And he always said what he meant. Even when he was lying.

“Though I’m pretty sure Jesus couldn’t draw. ”

Heather shrugged. “How do you know? If I were the son of god, I’d want it to come with some artsy perks. Maybe they just didn’t write it down.”

She started to gather the papers, but Poppy snagged the contract before she could. “Hang on. Um. Would you be okay with…hanging a piece that’s not for sale?”

“That depends,” Heather said. “You and your droopy-dog boyfriend planning on coming back for coffee and gallons of water again soon? Because I could make an exception, if so.”

“It’s just for a few days,” Poppy said, not wanting to even think about how much Rai wasn’t coming back. Ever. “Just until I can finish something else. I…” She sighed. “I think I want to keep this one.”

“No problem.” Heather winked. “Like I said, I have eyes.” She scribbled out the price on the paperwork, wrote “NFS” in its place, and handed the pen to Poppy to initial the change before sweeping it all away and leaving Poppy alone with her thoughts and her lukewarm cinnamon coffee.

She sipped it, letting the flavor roll over her tongue while memories rolled through her mind.

She hadn’t thought herself ready to come in here, because of the grief that would surely weigh her down, but somehow the lightness she’d been feeling since she’d finally stood up to Brendan’s bullying and abuse, his theft of her own self, was still bubbling through her along with the memories of Rai.

Making his coffee into cinnamon mud, drinking it with honest pleasure.

Tracing the lines of her self-portrait—the first of her drawings he’d desired and bought , she realized—his eyes wide with fascination.

Kissing her sweetly by the bus bins. All the times his lies had somehow been more honest than truth.

They all felt weightless to her now, joyful even as her stomach clenched with desperate longing, and they buoyed her up, up and out of the booth, down the street and back home.

She paused for a moment, gazing at her mother’s front porch—the comforting plants, the familiar decor, safe and warm and nostalgic—and then she lifted her chin and strode to the door, opening it and poking her head in.

The living room was just the same as it had been that morning, her laptop and headphones sitting on the sunflower couch where she’d left them after flambéeing the last shattered remnants of her professional publishing career.

She should check the transcript market. Those lawsuit judgments weren’t going to pay for themselves.

But not now.

“Mom, I’m back,” she called. “I’ll be in the studio, okay?”

Her mom poked her head out of the hall, smiling. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?”

Poppy assessed her mother’s demeanor quickly and shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got everything I need. I’ll see you at dinner?”

At her mom’s cheerful agreement, she closed the door—firmly but not loudly—and walked to the guest house.

Doubts were welling up now, squirming out of their cans, trying to weigh her down, but she focused instead on the lightness, the freedom, the feeling of flying.

Worms belonged in the dirt, and that’s not where she was now. That wasn’t where she belonged.

Rai had given that to her, she realized as she opened the guest house door.

Whatever else he’d done or said, he’d been a catalyst, changing her in ways she was only now beginning to understand.

It had hurt. God, it had hurt. It had hurt so much she’d thought she was going to die, so much she’d wanted to crawl back inside her shell of self-preservation forever, done with taking chances.

And…and she’d probably never see him again, not in person.

Rai was gone. Even if she unblocked him, messaged him, he couldn’t come back.

But, she thought as she walked down the hall to the studio— her studio—he was alive. He was out there in the world, alive but not at all safe, and she owed it to him to do her own living now. To take a leap. To be not safe , and see where it took her.