Page 43 of The Chamber

“I think I really am falling for you,” he said softly.

“I think I love you, too,” Jeremiah replied.

* * *

Kenneth woke the next morning on the couch with a stiff neck. He was alone with a blanket over his body that he didn’t remember.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Jeremiah cheerfully called from the kitchen.

Kenneth grunted and rolled onto his side to find a comfy spot where his neck didn’t hurt.

“Sun’s up—how about we go for a walk?” Jeremiah returned to the living room and placed a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a cup of coffee on the side table. “Pick your poison.”

“How about I choose more sleep?” Kenneth opened one eye to see Jeremiah dressed in joggers and an old t-shirt.

“I guess you can do that, but it’s soo beautiful out this morning.” He sat beside Kenneth and gently shook his shoulder.

“I’ve lost this battle, haven’t I?” Kenneth grunted.

After a few minutes in the bathroom, he pulled on a pair of Jeremiah’s joggers and a t-shirt that smelled of fresh laundry detergent and a little bit of Jeremiah.

It was a beautiful morning—warm, sunny, and they were out early enough to avoid most other people. “Okay,” Kenneth announced, “I suppose this was a good idea, but I did enjoy the sleep.”

“Race you to the bench!” Jeremiah suddenly challenged, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he sprinted forward.

“Hey, no fair!” Kenneth laughed. “I’m barely awake.” He quickened his pace to catch up. The exhilaration of the friendly competition sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.

As they reached the bench, both panting and laughing, Kenneth couldn’t help but marvel at their relationship’s transformation since their escape from the Chamber of Endurance. It was as though the darkness of their shared past had given way to a bright, hopeful future. He looked over at Jeremiah, sweat glistening on his forehead, and an unfamiliar warmth swelled in his chest.

“Is this what love feels like?” Kenneth wondered.

“Looks like we’re evenly matched,” Jeremiah said between gasps for air, a grin stretching across his face. “I guess we’ll have to call it a draw.”

“Next time, I won’t let you get the head start,” Kenneth teased, trying to ignore the way his pulse raced at the sight of Jeremiah’s dimpled smile.

“Deal,” Jeremiah agreed, bumping shoulders with him in a playful gesture. “Now, how about we cool down and grab some breakfast?”

“Sounds perfect.” Kenneth nodded, falling into step alongside Jeremiah as they began their leisurely walk back home.

In those quiet moments, walking side by side with Jeremiah beneath the golden light of the rising sun, Kenneth realized just how much he had come to cherish their time together. He couldn’t deny the strength of his feelings any longer, and while the thought of love still frightened him, the prospect of facing that fear with Jeremiah by his side made it feel surmountable.

TWENTY

ART

Kenneth stood before a blank canvas, his pulse pounding in his ears. The studio’s still air weighed heavily on him, a tangible reminder of his time away from his easel. Now, though, his muse returned, a compelling call from within, urging him to return to his art.

He spoke to the canvas as though it were an old friend. “You’ve waited, haven’t you?” he said, his voice tinged with anticipation. “I’ve missed you too.”

The canvas remained silent, an enigmatic smile hidden in its blank whiteness.

“It’s time,” Kenneth continued, his words laced with determination, his eyes alight with the spark of creation. “Our dance starts again right now, and I—I won’t let you down this time. The world needs to see what we can do together.”

He crossed the room with purpose, relishing in the feeling that washed over him as his fingers traced the spines of dusty brushes and the cool metal paint tubes. An almost forgotten sense of familiarity enveloped him like a warm embrace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Kenneth breathed in the scent of turpentine and linseed oil with a contented sigh.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he whispered, his voice tingling with emotion. But the words seemed inadequate, a mere shadow of the profound connection he felt. His eyes sparkled as he turned to the easel.

He selected a few brushes, their bristles worn and frayed from years of vigorous use, and set them beside the canvas. With deliberate movements, he squeezed dollops of paint onto a glass palette, each color representing a different piece of himself—the raw sienna of his past, the burnt umber of his pain, and the cerulean blue of hope.

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