Chapter 2
Iris
Last night's discovery kept me awake until dawn.
I lay in bed, replaying those paintings over and over in my mind—for six years, Sebastian had been painting me. Every birthday, every milestone, every moment he wasn't there to witness, captured by his brush. That line "Day 2,187 without her" was branded into my memory.
'He's been thinking about me too, just like I've been thinking about him.'
The next morning at ten, I deliberately slept in, making sure Sebastian would already be downstairs.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and Elena's signature French toast, her silver hair catching the sunlight. Sebastian stood with his back to me at the coffee machine, his white t-shirt outlining his broad shoulders.
"Good morning, sweetheart." Elena turned to see me, her face lighting up with that warm smile. "Did you sleep well?"
"Great." I lied, my eyes fixed on Sebastian's back. His shoulders tensed visibly, but he didn't turn around.
Elena caught the tension, her brow furrowing slightly. "Sebastian, aren't you going to say good morning?"
He turned slowly, clutching his coffee mug, carefully avoiding eye contact. "Morning, Iris."
"Morning." I deliberately walked closer, brushing against his arm as I passed. He froze like he'd been electrocuted.
Elena picked up on the weird vibe immediately, setting down her spatula. "Actually, I have an idea. Sebastian, could you teach Iris some painting basics? She's interested in art, and it would help her fit into the artistic environment here."
Sebastian nearly dropped his coffee mug. "I'm not a good teacher. She could take classes..."
"Nonsense, you're the most talented painter I know." Elena cut him off, her tone brooking no argument. "This is family responsibility, Sebastian. Iris needs to feel at home here."
I seized my chance, putting on my most innocent expression. "I'd love to learn your style, Sebastian. I saw your studio yesterday—you're incredibly talented."
Sebastian's eyes finally met mine, then darted away like he'd been burned.
"I..." his voice cracked.
"It's settled then." Elena clapped her hands together. "You can start this afternoon. I'll go out and get some supplies, give you two some quiet space to work."
Sebastian looked like he wanted to bolt, but Elena's insistence left him nowhere to run. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod.
"Fine. Two o'clock." His voice was barely audible.
At exactly two PM, I showed up at the studio door.
I'd deliberately chosen a thin pink camisole with a lower neckline than usual, paired with a white pleated skirt. Not obvious, but enough to be distracting.
Sebastian was already waiting, having set up a fresh canvas on a new easel for me. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, bathing the whole studio in golden light.
"We'll start with basics." His voice was tight. "Brush grip first."
He handed me a paintbrush, and I made sure our fingers touched when I took it. He shuddered, nearly dropping the brush.
"Hold it like this..." he began demonstrating, but kept his distance.
"I can't see clearly." I lied. "Could you come closer?"
Sebastian hesitated, then finally stepped beside me. His warmth and the faint scent of paint surrounded me—I could feel his nervous breathing.
"Relax your wrist... like this..." His voice was strained as he reached out to adjust my grip.
When his hand covered mine, I felt him trembling. His hands were large and warm, with calluses from years of painting. I deliberately let my breathing become unsteady.
"Your hand is shaking, Sebastian." I said softly, turning to look at him.
Our faces were so close I could see the pain and longing in his eyes. His pupils dilated, his breathing growing rapid.
"Sorry, I need water." He jerked his hand away and practically fled to the sink in the corner.
'Just as I thought. He's fighting it. Last night's discovery was right on the money.'
I pretended to focus on painting while secretly watching him. Sebastian stood with his back to me, hands braced on the sink edge, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. He looked like he was at war with himself.
"Sebastian?" I deliberately bent over to adjust the easel angle, letting my camisole gape open slightly. "Is this color right?"
When he turned, his eyes inadvertently swept across my chest before snapping away, a flush creeping up his neck.
"Yes... yes, that's perfect." He stammered.
For the next hour, I continued these subtle provocations. Letting my hair fall in my face so he'd have to brush it away, deliberately pressing close when he gave instruction, creating little "accidents" that required his help.
Each time, Sebastian would nervously step back, but his eyes betrayed the desire burning inside him.
Later, Sebastian announced he needed to buy more paint.
"Keep practicing basic strokes. I'll be right back." He grabbed his keys, clearly desperate to escape the space.
At eleven PM, I heard water running in Sebastian's room. Shower sounds.
I grabbed some paintbrushes as an excuse and crept toward his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar—I pushed it open just enough to slip inside.
The bedroom was minimal, with abstract paintings on the walls. A black leather journal sat on the nightstand beside a reading lamp.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Water was still running in the bathroom. I quickly moved to the nightstand and opened the journal.
The latest entry made me hold my breath:
[Day 2,188. She's back, but I can't... shouldn't... she trusts me, sees me as her brother. Teaching her to paint today, I almost lost control. Her lips were so close, wanted to... no. Elena mentioned introducing me to Dr. Martin's daughter—maybe that would help redirect my attention. But watching Iris concentrate on her painting, I know no one could ever replace her. She's my only inspiration and my greatest torment.]
Dr. Martin's daughter? A setup?
'No, Sebastian. You don't need anyone to redirect your attention. The person you need is right here.'
Suddenly, the water stopped.
I slammed the journal shut, grabbed the brushes, and bolted from the room, my heart racing like it might explode. Back in my own room, I leaned against the door, gasping.
In this studio filled with paint fumes and creative passion, I was going to make Sebastian understand—he didn't need to suppress himself, didn't need to run away, and definitely didn't need some Dr. Martin's daughter.
What he needed had been right beside him all along.