Page 46 of Sawyer
Nothing smells like new beginnings the way fresh paint does—oily, mineral, a hush of possibility hovering the second the cap twists off. The great room at Bastion is our studio today: tarps taped to slate slabs, windows thrown open so pine air spins inside and mixes with the scent of turpentine. Early light pours down the A-frame ceiling, and Sawyer stands at my side, sleeves rolled, expression equal parts curiosity and latent battle readiness.
“I’m trusting you not to mock my inner Picasso,” he warns, eyeing the blank canvas perched on an easel we hauled from the supplies closet.
“I would never,” I say, dipping a flat brush into cerulean. “But be aware I own photographic evidence of your first attempt.”
“Blackmail material,” he grumbles, but a smile tugs at his mouth.
I hand him a palette already dabbed with cobalt, burnt umber, titanium white. “Lesson one: paint speaks faster than words. Don’t overthink. Lay color, then decide what it’s trying to say.”
His brow furrows. “That sounds… spiritual.”
“It is.” I guide his fingers around the brush handle, our skin touching, sparks flaring up my arm. “Like your bomb work—muscle memory plus instinct. The only consequence here is ugly wall art.”
He exhales, raises the brush, and—after a glance at me for permission—drags a wide swipe of cerulean across the canvas. The stroke is hesitant, straight as a laser. I laugh softly.
“You paint like you’re drawing a security perimeter,” I tease.
He huffs. “Occupational hazard.”
I lift my own brush, slash a diagonal streak of raw sienna right through his blue—a reckless, messy Z. “There. Now soften the edge.”
He tilts his head. “How?”
I step behind him, pressing my chest to his back, guiding his hand with mine. Together we feather the wet edge, blue and brown bleeding into smoky twilight. His breath catches as my heart trills. The sensation of his muscles flexing under my palms is dangerously distracting.
“See?” I whisper. “Art is a conversation. Even the interruptions become the point.”
“Conversation. Copy that.” He breaks free, dips into ochre, dots small bursts across the haze. “Stars?”
“Or tracer rounds,” I joke, but his grin says he’ll allow the poetic version tonight.
For an hour we trade strokes—some bold, some timid. He loosens, shoulders dropping, lines turning fluid. He smears a swath of midnight purple as I carve a river of viridian through it. Together, we splash raincloud gray with a toothbrush flick, and then he risks a finger-paint swirl, spreading white and gold into galaxies. And somewhere between color choices and shared laughs, the undercurrent between us swells like a rising tide.
“Your turn,” he says finally, stepping back to examine the riot of abstraction. He’s streaked with crimson on his jaw, a smear of teal on his forearm. My personal masterpiece. He eyes my untouched skin, then dips his thumb into cadmium red and swipes it gently across my collarbone, just above the neckline of my tank.
“Marking territory?” I challenge.
“Creating dialogue,” he answers, his voice low and steady.
The air thickens. I set my brush in the turp jar, wiping my hands on a rag, and then walk toward him, my hips thrumming. “We could blend more layers,” I suggest, feather-light fingertip tracing the crimson on his jaw.
“We could,” he murmurs, snagging my paint-stained hand, lifting it to his mouth. He kisses the inside of my wrist—soft, deliberate. Heat rolls through me.
I step closer until my paint-splattered chest brushes his. “I’ve always wanted a live canvas,” I whisper. “Think you can hold still?”
A spark leaps in his eyes. Pure hunger. “Try me.”
He peels off his fitted white T-shirt, exposing his weapon-forged physique scarred with muted memories. I dip a clean brush into ultramarine and, with exaggerated care, paint a winding line from his left shoulder down across his sternum. He holds steady, gaze riveted to my lips. I swirl the line, add copper arcs mimicking topographic maps. When I reach his abdomen he inhales sharply.
“Ticklish?” I tease.
“Anticipating.”
I tilt the brush handle, draw it lower, just skimming the V of his hip. His breath hitches as mine echoes. Craving sparks along every nerve. I set the brush aside, and with my fingers, I smear the paint—blue and copper mixing, my hands exploring. His skin is warm and alive.
He reaches for me, tugging my tank over my head, tossing it aside. The mountain air skates over my paint-dappled skin, but his heated gaze scorches. I back him carefully until his shoulders meet the wall beside the windows, then press both hands to his chest and lean in, trailing open-mouthed kisses across paint and scars. He groans, tilts his head back, surrendering.
I lick a path from his jaw to his collarbone. “Still holding still?”
