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I painted Everett.

Not the sea. Not France. Not the women in linen and sunglasses or the curves of old stone streets or the watercolor blues of the Riviera.

Him.

A faceless man at a window with a phone in his hand and loneliness in the line of his back.

And the worst part is, now that I've seen it, I can't unsee what that means.

That he lives in my head.

That he matters enough to come out in paint before I could stop him.

That somewhere under all my practical thinking and contracts and rules and one-year deadlines, some part of me has already started translating him into feeling.

I finish dinner and set the plate aside, then walk to the painting again.

The wet paint has dried enough now that I can touch the edge of the canvas without smudging it.

My finger traces the air just above the line of his shoulder.

Everett behind glass.

Everett in a penthouse.

Everett in the office downstairs, one room away and still somehow impossible to get close to.

The thought slips in quiet and devastating. Maybe I painted him because I recognized him before I was ready to admit it, or because I painted him because I know loneliness when I see it. Or maybe I painted him because I am starting to love the parts of him he doesn't know what to do with.

I close my eyes and let the thought hit me.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something close enough to cast a shadow.

And the shadow has his shape.

The clock on my phone reads 2:47 a.m.

Sleep isn't coming.

I've been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, the sheets tangled around my legs, the painting propped against the dresser where I can see it every time I turn my head.

The Lonely Billionaire.

Even in the dark, I know where it is.

Even with my eyes closed, I know what it looks like. And maybe that's the real problem. Not that I painted Everett but that I can't stop thinking about what it means that I did.

I roll onto the other side of the bed out of instinct and find cold sheets. They’re empty.

For one second, I let the disappointment sink in that he left the bed. Then I sit up.

The villa is quiet, though the stillness feels loud in a different way with waking up alone. I tug on the lightweight robe hanging at the end of the bed and step into the hallway barefoot, already assuming I'll find him in the office.

The kitchen is dark except for the blue glow of the appliance panel and the small green light on the espresso machine that never fully turns off.