Chapter 170: Messed up

“Harder?” he asked, shifting my leg slightly.

“Yes,” I said, my voice low, letting the closeness between us speak for itself.

He adjusted me, his touch careful yet insistent. The heat between us was undeniable, every movement sending little shocks through me. I kept a hand on his shoulder, letting the other run through his damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead. As I did, I noticed a streak of green paint on his cheek from earlier. I gently wiped it away, and it brought back a memory of that strange, chaotic afternoon when we had laughed over similar messes.

“Were you painting on Wednesday when you were… distracted?” I asked, keeping my tone light, though there was curiosity in my voice.

He froze for a second, then tightened his hold on me, guiding me closer—but he didn’t answer. My chest pressed against him, and I could feel the sudden shift in his energy. My heart skipped a beat.

“I want to see your paintings, Felix,” I said softly, leaning into him. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. You paint on me so beautifully… I just want to see the rest of your work.”

Still, he remained silent, moving with deliberate focus, as though my words had barely landed. I gripped his shoulder and searched for his eyes. When I finally caught his gaze, he pressed his lips to mine—not with urgency, but with a charged intensity that left me both calm and restless at once.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” he murmured, and I felt the seriousness in his tone.

I ran my fingers along the back of his neck, combing through his wet hair. “You don’t need to hide it from me, Felix. I really want to see your paintings. I want to see the things that make you happy, the things that matter to you.”

And just like that, he pulled back completely. I felt a hollow sinking in my stomach as he stepped away, leaving me stunned in the warmth of the shower mist.

“I can’t do this,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Felix, what’s wrong? Where are you going?” I asked, panic creeping into my voice.

Before he could answer, he stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running, leaving me behind. My pulse raced. I followed quickly, wrapping a towel around myself, and reached for him—but he shrugged me off with a frustrated motion.

“Felix, seriously, what’s going on?” I demanded, my eyebrows furrowed.

“What the hell do you mean, Blair?!” he snapped, raising his voice in a way that made my chest tighten.

“I just… why did you leave? Why did you stop?”

“Because you accused me of lying! That’s why!” he said sharply, moving to his closet. “I told you I don’t paint except for special occasions, like tonight. You know that!”

I froze, clutching my towel tighter. His face was tense, guarded, a mixture of sadness and frustration. How could he flip from calm and playful to this, just because of a simple question about his art?

“Something’s going on that you’re not telling me,” I said cautiously, holding my towel firmly in place. “It doesn’t make sense that you’d act like this. We were having… a really nice moment, and now you’re shutting me out over a question?”

“It wasn’t an innocent question, and you know it,” he said, dressing quickly. “You can’t blame me for not being in the mood after calling me a liar.”

He grabbed some pajamas from my drawer and tossed them at me without care.

“You’re being mean,” I said, feeling a sting of humiliation. “I was just asking to see your art—it’s a compliment.”

“No,” he said firmly, without raising his voice.

“You’re being unfair. I admit when I do something wrong, but this time, it’s on you. You were closing me out over a question I asked while we were… being close. You didn’t even consider my feelings.”

I fell silent, lowering my gaze. He was right. I had let my curiosity get the better of me at the worst possible time. I had breached a vulnerable space, and now it was showing in the tension between us.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” I said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was insensitive. I shouldn’t have brought it up then. I’m sorry.”

He stepped closer, but I could tell he wasn’t ready to bridge the distance fully yet.

“Do you think I’m a liar?” he asked gravely.

I bit my lip. “No…”

“Do you still think I paint in secret?”

“No…” I whispered, truthfully.

He took the pajamas from my hands and motioned for me to drop the towel. I did, and he helped me dress, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead as he finished—but the affection was careful, measured, not like it usually was.

Afterward, he slipped into bed quietly, turning his back to me. I climbed onto my side, for the first time not reaching for him, not pressing close. I stayed still, feeling the ache of distance between us.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked softly, my voice nearly swallowed by the quiet of the room.

“A little,” he admitted. His tone was calm, not cold—just distant.

I stared at the ceiling, feeling the tension settle around me like a heavy fog. Slowly, I reached out and placed a hand on his back, tracing gentle circles.

“I don’t want you to be upset with me,” I whispered, sitting up slightly. “I hate this feeling. I’m so sorry, Felix. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. The thought of him being distant, upset, or closed off twisted my chest painfully. I leaned closer, pressing small, hesitant kisses to his shoulder, trying to bridge the gap.

“Please don’t be mad at me. I messed up…”

“You’re not messing up,” he finally said, voice softening. “Blair… it’s okay. I overreacted, too. Let’s just… breathe.”

He turned to face me, opening his arms. I leaned into him, relief washing over me as I finally felt his warmth again, the tension between us easing into comfort.