Page 10 of Claim Me, Colt

I should be helping her. Should take the dish towel from her hands and finish the job myself.

Instead, I lean against the doorframe and watch her move around my space like she belongs here.

Because maybe she does.

"You don't have to do that," I say finally.

She glances over her shoulder, suds up to her elbows. "I know. I want to."

"Why?"

She considers the question while rinsing a coffee mug. "Because no one's ever let me just... beuseful. It’s a nice feeling.” She sets the mug in the drying rack with satisfaction.

I cross the room and take the dish towel from the counter, drying the dishes she's washed. We work in comfortable silence, her washing and me drying in a rhythm that feels like we've been doing this for years.

When the last plate is clean, she leans back against the counter, looking pleased with herself.

"What now?" she asks.

"Now you tell me what you want to do."

She blinks. "What I want to do?"

"Yeah. Not what someone else expects or what looks good for the cameras. Whatyouwant."

The question seems to stump her. She stares at me for a long moment, then laughs—but it sounds hollow.

"I don't know," she admits. "Isn't that pathetic? I'm twenty-eight years old and I have no idea what I actually want to do with my day."

"Not pathetic. Just honest."

She pushes off from the counter and walks to the window, looking out at the forest beyond. The storm cleared overnight, leaving everything green and sparkling.

"I used to paint," she says quietly. "In college, before I graduated and Dad decided I needed to focus on more 'practical' pursuits. I was actually pretty good at it."

"What kind of painting?"

"Landscapes mostly.” She traces a pattern on the glass with her finger. "I haven't touched a brush in ages.”

Something about the wistfulness in her voice makes me want to put my fist through a wall. What kind of people take someone's joy and systematically strip it away?

"I've got supplies," I hear myself saying.

She turns. "What?"

"Art supplies. Paints, brushes, canvases. Previous owner left them behind, and I never got around to throwing them out."

Her eyes light up like I just offered her the moon. "Really?"

"I have no idea of the quality,” I add quickly, not wanting her to be disappointed.

I lead her to the spare room I use for storage, dig through boxes until I find what I'm looking for. The art supplies are dusty but intact—watercolors, acrylics, brushes in every size, stretched canvases still wrapped in plastic.

She handles them reverently, like they're made of spun gold. "Thank you.”

I rub my neck awkwardly. “I didn’t do anything.”

She rises on her toes and kisses me—soft and sweet and full of gratitude that makes my chest tight.

---