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"Never thought I'd find myselfpainting," Liam confessed, a playful glint in his eye as he added a streakof pink to the canvas. "It's... relaxing."
"Art has a way of doingthat," Charlotte replied, her voice soft, reflecting the tranquility ofthe moment. "It's not just about what ends up on the canvas. It's aboutletting yourself explore, letting go."
As they continued, the boundariesbetween artist and novice blurred. Charlotte guided him through mixing colors,her hand briefly covering his, showing him how to create the perfect shade fordirectional light. They laughed gently at the dollops of paint that somehowfound their way onto Liam's nose, and he joked about becoming as speckled as aJackson Pollock piece.
The room around them seemed to recede.Liam's laughter became the melody that filled the spaces of her once silentretreat, his enjoyment in the process a mirror to her own contentment.
"Look at that," she said withadmiration, pointing to his canvas where the stack of books sat in austerestillness. "You've captured it, Liam. The essence of literature."
His cheeks tinged with pride, Liam setdown his brush and took a step back, observing their work. "I might readall these books now. I couldn't have done it without you, Charlotte."
"Art isn't about solitude,"she responded, her heart swelling with a sense of purpose renewed amidst thesmell of oil paints and the comforting presence of her unlikely pupil."It's about sharing a piece of your soul. And tonight, we did justthat."
"Tell me about yourself,Liam," she ventured, her voice gentle amidst the tranquility of the room."What do you like to do when you're not holding a paintbrush?"
Liam paused, his hand hovering mid-air,the bristles of the brush speckled with a vibrant green. He seemed taken abackby the question, a hint of vulnerability flickering across his features beforehe managed a small smile.
"Well," he began, setting thebrush down and wiping his hands on a rag, "I suppose I've always beendrawn to the quiet things. Books, mostly. Stories that transport you to anothertime and place."
"Any favorites?" Charlotteasked, intrigued by this glimpse into his inner world.
"Too many to count," headmitted with a chuckle. "But I'm fond of classics. Dickens, Brontë,Hardy. There's something about their depiction of human nature that resonateswith me."
She nodded understandingly, seeing howthe depth and complexity of those authors mirrored the layers she was beginningto find in Liam. "Hobbies? Something tells me there's more to you thanmeets the eye."
"Ah, well, I dabble inwoodworking," Liam confided, his eyes lighting up with a spark ofenthusiasm. "
"Woodworking and literature,"she reflected aloud. "You have an artist's heart, Liam. And now, perhaps,a painter's touch."
The corners of Liam's mouth quirkedupward at her words, and he met her gaze with an earnestness that made her ownheart flutter. In the simple exchange, under the humming silence of The OldCrown Inn, Charlotte realized she was witnessing the unfolding of somethingremarkable. Something like the very landscapes they painted—storied, textured,and rich with hidden depths.
Liam paused, looking at Charlotte."This... all of this, it's been really nice."
"Nice?" she teased, a playfullilt to her voice. "I was aiming for at least a solid 'pleasant.'"
"More than pleasant," hecorrected, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that reached hiseyes. "You make it easy to like you.”
Charlotte nodded, a warmth spreadingthrough her chest. "Thank you, Liam," she said softly, the gratitudeevident in her voice. "For tonight. For trying something new withme."
" I should be thanking you,"he responded, with genuine sincerity. "I never thought I'd find myselfholding a paintbrush, let alone enjoying it…with my sister."
Her chest pinched when he said it, butshe let it slide without comment, not wanting to scare him off with a reaction.The quiet clink of glass jars and the rustle of paper towels punctuated theircleanup. Charlotte folded her easel, her movements slow and deliberate as shecontemplated the evening. It had started with tentative brushstrokes, bothliteral and metaphorical, but had blossomed into an ease of interaction thatheld promise for deeper connection.
"Would you do this again?"she asked, a hopeful lilt in her voice as she carefully packed away her paints."With me, I mean."
"Definitely," he confirmed,and the simplicity of his answer lifted her spirits. "I think I'vediscovered a side of myself I didn't know existed."
"I'm here for you, you know,"she continued, her tone laced with an earnestness that felt like a soft blanketenveloping them both. "Not just for painting or a room at the inn.Whatever you need. A friend, a listening ear..." She trailed off, allowingthe offer to hang in the air between them, as tangible as the art they hadcreated together.
Liam's expression softened, a quietacknowledgment of her words. He looked away for a moment toward the open windowwhere the moon cast its glow over the water outside. "Since my mom died,it's not always easy to open up. But tonight... it felt right."
"Goodnight, Liam," she said,her voice carrying a promise of tomorrow's potential.
"Goodnight, Charlotte," hereplied, his voice steady and sure.
With the moon standing guard in the skyand the sea humming its timeless song, Charlotte watched Liam ascend the stairsto his room before she turned out the lights and banked the fire. In thedarkness, she allowed herself a small, hopeful smile. The seeds offriendship—of siblingship?—once sown, could flourish in the most unexpectedways, and she sensed that something beautiful was beginning to grow betweenthem.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
