Page 94 of The Hotel Room

She hadn’t said anything in return.

She wasn’t ready to.

But the memory of it lingered—steady and grounding, like a small light breaking through the storm.

Her chest tightened, her throat thick with unspoken emotion.

She didn’t want to paint the chaos anymore.

Not today.

Kate dipped her brush into a soft, warm color—something golden and earthy. She started with slow, deliberate strokes, letting her hand move instinctively, without overthinking.

The colors began to layer—golden hues blending into muted blues, soft greens merging with gentle creams.

The jagged edges she’d painted before were gone now. Replaced with something fluid, something softer.

She wasn’t trying to replicate anything specific. It wasn’t about form or detail.

It was aboutfeeling.

The warmth of his embrace.

The steady rhythm of his breathing.

The way his hand cradled the back of her head, anchoring her when she felt like she might fall apart.

Her movements quickened as the image in her mind took shape—not a literal representation of him, but an expression of what that moment had meant.

Safety.

Comfort.

A fragile kind of hope.

The studio was quiet except for the sound of her brush against the canvas.

She lost track of time, pouring herself into the piece, layer by layer, until the colors glowed with a quiet warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

When she finally stepped back, her chest ached in a way that wasn’t painful but full.

The painting wasn’t perfect.

It didn’t have to be.

But itfeltright.

Kate set her brush down, wiping her hands on the apron she’d tied around her waist.

Her gaze lingered on the canvas, her fingers unconsciously pressing against her chest as though trying to hold the feeling there.

For the first time in weeks, the weight inside her didn’t feel so unbearable. It wasn’t gone—she wasn’t sure if it ever would be.

But this? This was a start.

She turned her head slightly as the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears.

James was standing just outside the open door, watching her quietly, his hands shoved into his pockets. He hadn’t said a word, but the look in his eyes was tender, careful, as though he knew this moment wasn’t for him.

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