There were some boxes that felt heavier than their size. Not because of what they contained, but because of what they meant.
Althea stared at the old, taped-up one at the back of the storage room. A small part of her had hoped it got lost during the move. But here it was, haunting her like a bad memory sealed in cardboard.
She crouched and dragged it out. Dust coated the top, and someone, probably Max, had scribbled A's stuff (careful!) in big bold letters. The exclamation mark made her lips curl up to a smile.
She took it to the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor, slicing the tape open with her keys. And there, nestled between faded sketchbooks, tubes of dried paint, and worn-out brushes, lay pieces of a version of herself she hadn't touched in years.
A sharp smell of oil paint and old wood filled her nose. She swallowed hard.
"What's that?" Max's voice cut in from behind her. Althea flinched and slammed the box shut. "Nothing."
Max raised an eyebrow, walking over with a glass of water in hand. He offered it to her without comment and sat beside her on the floor.
"Looks like your box of secrets," he said lightly.
"It's not." She took the glass and sipped.
"Oh? Then why did you just karate-chop the lid closed like it offended you?"
Althea gave him a tired look. "Some things don't need an audience."
Max smiled, eyes warm but curious. "Is that a sketchbook?"
"No."
He peered over her shoulder. "It says Sketchbook No. 6."
She glared. "That doesn't mean anything."
He leaned closer, clearly amused. "So the previous five are lies too?"
Althea sighed, nudging the box away. "Drop it."
Althea quickly tried to shield the canvas with her arm. "What?"
He blinked. "You… painted that?"
"No," she said too quickly. "It's a… sky photograph."
"Right," he deadpanned. "And I'm Picasso."
"Exactly."
But he wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes had drifted to the box, widening as he took in the mess of old supplies and more small canvases tucked inside. He stepped into the room, crouching beside her before she could stop him.
"These are all yours?" he asked softly.
She didn't answer. He picked up a sketchpad and flipped it open carefully. The pages were worn, but the sketches were intact, expressive, detailed, alive. There were drawings of rooftops, people on subways, the sea under moonlight. A lot of her work was done in vibrant paint.
He kept flipping until she gently took it from his hands.
"I don't draw anymore," she said.
Max didn't argue, didn't push. Just watched her.
"They weren't supposed to be in the box," Althea mumbled. "I hid them. Behind my bed frame. Probably got swept in during packing."
"I'm glad they did," he said, voice lower now.
She gave a humorless laugh. "You'd be the first."
His brows drew together. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" she set the sketchbook aside. "They never liked me doing this. It was always 'study instead', or 'this is a waste of time'. I had to sneak materials. Paint at night. Hide things under the floorboard. And if they found them..."
Max was silent.
"I got smart eventually," she added. "Used cheap paints, so I wouldn't get upset if they were thrown out."
Something about the way she said it, so casually, like it was just another fact of life, made Max feel cold.
"You're amazing," he said, quietly. "Like, actually amazing."
Althea scoffed. "You're saying that because I drew a rooftop without making it look like a potato."
"No," he said, chuckling. "Well, maybe partially. But mostly because... even with all that, you still created beauty. Even if it was hidden."
He stood, brushing his hands on his pants. "You're brilliant. You know that?"
Althea blinked up at him, caught off guard.
Max tilted his head. "Also, the rooftop did look slightly potato-shaped."
"Get out."
He laughed and dodged a flying paintbrush as he left.
Later that evening, she'd tucked the box away in her closet again. Max hadn't brought it up again, which made her oddly grateful. She didn't like being pushed.
But what she didn't know was that he hadn't forgotten.
Two days later, Max was pacing through the hallway on the phone, half-listening to a business associate drone on about logistics. He had no idea how he ended up near the guest room until something caught his eye.
A sketchbook sat open on the desk. Althea must've been flipping through it earlier and forgotten to put it back.
He glanced toward the living room. She wasn't around.
Max hesitated for half a second, then gently walked in and leaned over the sketchbook.
He expected something decent. Althea was talented, he could tell that much from the way she talked about it, even if she didn't mean to reveal much.
But he hadn't expected… this.
The drawing was of a street in Paris, probably from memory, not reference. The strokes were precise yet soft, shadows layered in a way that breathed life into the stone and sky. But it wasn't just technically good. It felt alive. Like the street had a soul.
He flipped the page.
Each piece was intimate in a way that hurt. As if Althea saw the world not just as it was, but how it could be if people were gentler.
He sat down, stunned.
It wasn't just art. It was her. And then he saw it.
That evening, Althea was walking toward the bedroom when something stopped her.
She froze. There, on the hallway wall, were three small frames. Wooden, simple, and new. Inside them, were her paintings.
She saw the city skyline. And the girl in the rain. And the sky. And her hand.
Her breath hitched.
The paintings she thought were still buried in boxes, the ones she was sure she'd never show anyone, were hanging in Max's hallway like they belonged there.
And someone had framed them.
Like they were worthy.
Althea's throat tightened. She stepped closer, brushing her fingers over the edge of one canvas like she was checking if it was real.
She wasn't sure when the tears slipped out.
They weren't loud or dramatic. Just quiet little drops at the corners of her eyes that she didn't even try to wipe away. For a moment, she stood in silence, letting it wash over her. The hallway felt warmer somehow. As if it belonged to her too. Then her eyes filled. Not from sadness, but from the strangest thing: being seen.
Her fingers touched the glass of the frame. She hadn't even remembered painting this one. She had hidden it so well, even she forgot where she'd put it.
A rustle behind her made her turn.
Max was watching from the corner of the hall, pretending to be on his phone.
"I didn't do it," he said quickly, putting his hands up. "It was the art fairy. Very talented."
"You—" She sniffled. "You framed them."
Max scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't think you'd mind. Or well… I knew you'd probably mind, but I was banking on you being too stunned to throw a shoe at me before I could explain."
She stared at him through wet lashes. "You don't even wear shoes inside the house."
"That's why I made sure your room slippers were far from reach," he said with a smirk, then added, "I may be stupid, but I'm not suicidal."
A choked laugh escaped her. One of those inconvenient, watery ones that sounded halfway between a sob and a hiccup.
"Oh my God," she muttered, burying her face in her hands. "You're so stupid."
Max tilted his head. "Would you prefer tax returns?"
She sniffed. "You're the worst."
"Obviously."
Althea shook her head, laughing through the mess of it. "They're not even that good."
He glanced at the wall. "They're yours."
She looked at him then, really looked. At the way he stood still, hands in his pockets like he wasn't sure if he should reach out or stay put. At the faint crease between his brows. At the slight twitch of his mouth, like he was holding back more than just a comment.
And she reached out, fingers brushing against his. It was barely a touch. But his fingers curled back. Not tightly. Just enough to say: I'm here.
Neither of them moved for a long second. Then, quietly, Max said, "You know, if you ever feel like finishing the umbrella one…"
She looked up.
"I've got good lighting. And floors that don't judge."
She let out a breathy laugh.
"I'm serious," he added, voice still low. "You paint, I'll frame."
Althea smiled, wet lashes and all. "You're ridiculous."
"Possibly."
And then, before either of them could step back or say something else—
Max lifted his hand slowly. And with the gentlest movement, he pushed a stray curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek. Just once. Her heart tripped. He didn't lean in. Didn't smirk or make a joke. Just held her gaze a second longer than necessary.
Like a silent question left unanswered.
Althea blinked first, stepping back slightly, but not all the way.
"You're gonna regret putting those up if a guest sees them," she said, voice barely steady.
Max smirked faintly. "That's the goal. Make them uncomfortable enough to leave."
She burst into laughter, the one that makes your inside feel warm, safe. The one that's enough to light up the whole place.
End of Chapter 41.