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FORTY-ONE

MOIRA

After days, I emerge from my self-imposed exile covered in oil paint, exhaustion dripping from me like the last dregs of coffee at the bottom of the pot. My hair’s half in a bun, half in a bird’s nest. My tank top used to be white, but now it’s a canvas of its own, Jackson Pollock-ed in black and deep red and a big smear of ochre right across my tits.

Bane is waiting when I push out the door of the spare room in my apartment. Of course he is. Leaning against the wall in that broody, too-intense way of his, arms crossed like he’s trying to keep himself from either shaking me or dragging me against him. His dark eyes rake over me, slow and assessing, like he’s cataloging every exhausted breath and speck of paint on my skin.

I cross my arms back at him. “What?”

He exhales through his nose. “Three days, Moira.”

“Yes, darling?” I bat my eyelashes. “Is this the part where you tell me I look a fright and should go take a bath?”

“No.” His voice is low and steady. Too steady. “This is the part where you tell me what the hell you’ve been doing locked away without eating or sleeping.”

I stretch, my bones cracking in protest, and give a little yawn. “I was eating. I had peanut butter straight from the jar. And coffee.”

“That is not eating.”

“Says you.” I smirk, then hesitate. My fingers tighten around the doorframe, and suddenly the bravado feels heavier to hold. I chew my lower lip, glancing back through the door toward the canvas propped up against the wall. “I was… working on something.”

Bane’s eyes flick to where I look, and he pushes off the wall in one fluid motion. “Show me.”

I stay planted. For once, not out of defiance but out of something sharper. More uncertain.

This is stupid. It’s just a painting. Just something I do every few years when I get a hare up my ass. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Bane sees too much already. What if he sees this, then sees right through me in a way I don’t know how to undo?

I almost tell him never mind, that I was kidding, that it’s a giant erotic mural of him on a horse just to see if he’ll blink, but it’s too late. He’s already moved, already stepped past me into the room, already standing in front of the canvas.

And he’s staring.

I tap my foot and bite my bottom lip.

My painting stands there, raw and open, like I cracked open my ribs and smeared my insides across the canvas.

The woman in the painting is almost swallowed by darkness. She’s a silhouette of curly hair barely discernible from the midnight tones that press in around her. But at her center, in the place where her heart should be, embers burn. Small, fragile. Flickering against the vast nothingness.

Bane doesn’t speak.

I shift from foot to foot, my stomach twisting. I hate this. Hate waiting. Hate that I want him to like it. Hate that I care.

“Well?” My voice comes out breezy and fake. “I was thinking of calling it ‘Brooding Asshole Watches Wife Paint.’ Too on the nose?”

His head turns toward me, slow as a glacier. His face is unreadable, but his eyes…

There’s something there. Something deep and raw and so overwhelming I have to look away.

“You did this,” he says, voice thick. “You painted this.”

I roll my eyes, because obviously, but my throat feels tight. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just something I do when I get the urge. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist?”

His voice is soft, but there’s something behind it that roots me to the floor. A heaviness. A weight.

I swallow. Shrug. Try to ignore how my chest feels like it’s caving in. “I’m not. I just play around sometimes. Not very often. It’s just a painting, Bane.”

His hand moves before I realize what’s happening, brushing over my arm, his thumb dragging over a stray streak of paint on my skin. He lifts his hand, staring at the dark smear on his fingertips like it’s something sacred.

Then he turns back to the canvas, his throat working. He doesn’t say anything else.

But he doesn’t have to.

Then, without a word, he moves. Strong arms wrap around me, his body anchoring mine in a way that feels like protection, like reverence. His embrace is firm but careful, like he’s afraid if he holds me too tight, I’ll slip away.

I freeze at first, because this—this softness, this quiet—is not something I’m used to. But then my muscles melt into him, exhaustion winning over instinct. My forehead drops against his chest, and for the first time in days, I let myself breathe. Just for a second. Just here, in the warmth of him.

His hand moves, slow and steady, up and down my back. No demands. No expectations. Just… holding me.

It’s almost too much. The kindness of it. The weight of him letting me rest for once instead of pushing or pulling or fighting.

I can’t let it stand.

I tilt my head back against his chest, peering up at him with a smirk. “So, uh… you do know this shirt was expensive, right?”

Bane exhales sharply, a sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten. “I don’t care.”

I poke at his chest. “You say that now, but wait until you realize I used oil paint and this stain is forever.”

His grip shifts, and he finally pulls back just enough to look down at me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice so low I barely catch it, he murmurs, “So be it.”

I roll my eyes, but inside, I feel... happy. The fire that’s burning in the painting—I feel it inside me now. Bane makes me warm and safe in ways I never knew were possible. Before, I felt like a jackal, afraid and always hungry for scraps.

On the rare occasions I do paint, it’s because there’s some feeling inside me that I can see in my mind but not name, and I can’t rest until I’ve gotten it out of me.

Now that it’s done and Bane’s being all, well, Bane , I feel giddy on exhaustion and accomplishment.

“Come on.” I pull back and grab his hand. “I need wine. And a lot of it, but I don’t have any in the house. You’re driving ‘cause I’m too tired.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Well then you better find a 7-Eleven that’s open 24 hours. I’m getting my shoes.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the car, and I’m bouncing my bare feet against the dashboard, drumming out a tune that only exists in my head while humming a ridiculous operatic rendition of Elmo’s World. Bane is gripping the wheel like he’s regretting every life decision that brought him here.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat to it.

“And yet, here you are. Enabling my bad behavior.” I poke his bicep. “That makes you my accomplice. My ride-or-die. My partner in crime.”

His sigh is long-suffering, but I see the twitch of his lips. “I am neither riding nor dying.”

“Well, you’re certainly no fun.”

He turns onto a quiet road leading to the gas station, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “And what part of this is fun, exactly?”

“The part where I get wine and we create a beautiful, spontaneous memory.” I flutter my lashes. “We are butter together, Bane. Soft, rich, and sinful.”

Bane exhales hard, like he’s praying for patience. But I see the corner of his mouth tilt upward.

Inside the 7-Eleven, I make a beeline for the sad little wine selection. I grab a bottle of something that looks like it was brewed in a bathtub and possibly banned in several states. Then I hold up another, squinting at the label.

“Red or white?” I ask.

Bane, looming behind me like a very judgmental shadow, eyes the selection like he’s witnessing a crime. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” I declare, thrusting both bottles toward him. “Choose our fate.”

“I refuse.”

“Too late, you’re involved.” I shove the red at him. “This one pairs well with dreadful decisions.”

He holds it like it might explode. “It’s three-dollar wine.”

I place a hand over my heart. “I never said we were going classy.”

After paying, we head back to the car. I twist off the cap before we even get the doors closed, take a long, dramatic swig, then smack my lips. “Mmm, notes of desperation and a hint of despair.”

Bane looks at me like he’s reconsidering our marriage. “Where to now?”

“Empty parking lot. We need music and ambiance.”

“Ambiance,” he repeats, deadpan.

“Exactly. We’re making memories, baby.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then—because he is, in fact, my ride-or-die—puts the car in gear and drives.

Five minutes later, we’re parked under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight in some abandoned lot. I kick my feet up on the dash again, wine bottle in my lap, and scroll through the radio until I find something appropriately vibey —which turns out to be an ‘90s power ballad.

“You gonna drink, or are you just my designated brooder?” I nudge Bane with the bottle.

He takes it, eyes me warily, then—shock of all shocks—he actually takes a sip. A small one. Like a man who just licked a poison dart frog.

I gasp. “Holy shit, look at you! Corrupting yourself one sip at a time.”

He hands the bottle back like it personally offended him. “It’s vile.”

“It’s freedom. ” I take another deep swig and drape myself dramatically across the seat. “You, Bane Blackwood, are experiencing a moment with your wife.”

He shakes his head, looking at me like he can’t decide whether to put me in a straight jacket or kiss me. Probably both.

I grin, throwing my head back against the seat, letting the music wash over me. “You know,” I say, swirling the bottle in my hand like it’s a fine vintage, “I used to think happiness was this elusive, mythical thing. Like Bigfoot or a healthy relationship. But right now, sitting here with you, drinking awful wine in an even worse parking lot?” I sigh contentedly. “I think I finally get it.”

Bane doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches out, slipping over mine. Warm. Solid. Steady.

And for the first time in forever, I feel... light.

The music hums, the stars blur, and I think—just for tonight—I don’t need to outrun anything. I can just be .