Chapter 74 Paint and dance
Hannah
Timothy returned a few minutes later balancing an easel under one arm and a blank canvas under the other, an apron already tied badly around his waist.
I bit back a smile.
“You look like you’re about to perform surgery,” I said.
He glanced down at himself. “Is it that obvious I’m out of my depth?”
“Tragically.”
He set everything up beside me, movements careful and oddly precise, like the canvas might explode if mishandled.
“Relax,” I teased. “It’s paint. Not a board meeting.”
“That’s debatable,” he muttered.
I picked up a pencil and began sketching lightly across my canvas, brows furrowing as I traced the image forming in my head. Lines curved and crossed, hesitant at first, then more certain. The world narrowed to graphite and white space.
When I finally stepped back, satisfied, I exhaled dramatically. “Done. Aha.”
I turned to check on him…
And found him staring at me.
Not the canvas.
Me.
“What?” I asked, suddenly hyper-aware of the paint smudge on my cheek and the way my apron hung crooked.
He blinked like he’d been caught. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
He shook his head once, faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just… watching.”
“Creepy,” I said lightly, though my pulse skipped.
I pointed at his blank canvas. “Okay, kindergarten lesson. All you have to do is paint within the lines. No overthinking. No corporate strategy.”
He eyed the pencil marks like they were encrypted code. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I handed him a brush.
He held it awkwardly, turning it in his fingers. “There’s… a correct way to grip this, isn’t there?”
“It’s not a scalpel, Timothy.”
He glanced at the palette, then at the water cup, then back at the canvas. “I feel judged by the supplies.”
I laughed despite myself. “They sense fear.”
He hesitated another second before dipping the brush into a cautious amount of paint.
“I’m horrible at this,” he muttered.
“It’ll be fine,” I said, returning to my own work.
I started layering color over my sketch, humming along to the music drifting through the room. For a while, we painted in companionable silence, broken only by small comments.
“What shade is this?” he asked.
“Blue.”
“There are seventeen blues on this palette.”
“Use your instincts.”
“That’s rarely advisable.”
I rolled my eyes.
Minutes passed. I could feel his focus beside me—the slight shift of his stance, the careful exhale when he dragged paint across the canvas. It was oddly endearing, watching someone so controlled step into something so unstructured.
A song ended.
Another began.
The first note hit.
I screamed.
Timothy jolted so violently he nearly knocked over his easel. “What…what happened?”
But I was already laughing.
“Oh my God!” I shouted, dropping my brush onto the stool and spinning in place. “I love this song!”
He stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
I grabbed the paintbrush again, holding it to my mouth like a microphone and belting out the opening line at full volume, shimmying across the room.
“Are you serious right now?” he asked, looking both horrified and amused.
I twirled past him, nearly smacking him with my apron strings. “Don’t pretend you don’t know this!”
“I don’t,” he said firmly.
I froze mid-lyric. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“This is the best song of the late ’90s!”
He folded his arms. “I was busy in the late ’90s.”
“With what? Being born?”
He scoffed. “Very funny.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically and resumed singing, louder this time, using the brush to punctuate every word. I caught him watching me again, this time openly smiling.
When the chorus ended, I rushed over to the speaker and replayed it.
“Hannah,” he warned.
“Timmy.” I mewled as I grabbed his wrist. “You’re dancing.”
“I absolutely am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He dug his heels in. “I don’t dance.”
“That’s tragic.”
The song blasted again, and I twirled around him, trying to pull him into motion. He stood stiff as a statue at first, arms awkwardly at his sides.
“Move!” I insisted.
“I am moving.”
“That was a shoulder twitch.”
He huffed, but finally and reluctantly his body loosened. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t coordinated. It was mostly jerky half-steps and confused arm movements.
I burst into laughter.
“Don’t laugh,” he said defensively.
“You look like you’re negotiating with the music.”
“At least I’m trying.”
“That’s debatable.”
But he was smiling now, really smiling. The kind that softened his entire face.
We spun and shuffled until the song ended again, breathless and slightly disheveled.
A new track started, slower this time.
I grinned. “God, I love that song.”
“I can tell,” he said dryly.
We returned to our canvases, though the air felt lighter now. Charged differently.
I dipped my brush back into paint, trying to focus, but I could feel his gaze flicking toward me every few seconds.
What was he thinking?
Was he seeing through me?
Was he buying the ridiculous period excuse?
My pulse thudded faintly in my ears.
“You’re staring again,” I said without looking up.
“I’m observing.”
“That’s just a polite word for staring.”
He chuckled softly.
I risked a glance sideways. He was pretending to examine his painting, but his eyes slid to me again almost immediately.
“What?” I pressed.
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I haven’t seen you like this in a while.”
“Like what?”
“Unfiltered.”
My throat tightened.
I looked back at my canvas, brushing color over pencil lines with more force than necessary. “Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention.”
“That’s not true.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time.
I told myself not to read into it.
Not to hope.
Not to fall any further.
But as music hummed softly in the background and sunlight caught in the flecks of paint on his forearms, I couldn’t stop wondering…
If I kept dancing like this around him, how long before I completely lost my balance?