The morning after she'd settled in, the apartment felt quieter than she expected.
Not the uncomfortable, sterile quiet of a strange place, but the kind that hummed in the air like the pause before a song begins. The city was awake beyond the windows -- distant honks, the faint rumble of traffic -- but in here, the air seemed thick with something slower.
Maya padded barefoot into the open kitchen, the cold marble counter brushing against her fingertips as she trailed them along. Damien's apartment didn't look like the kind of place that belonged to someone her age; it had a depth to it, not just in size but in detail. The walls didn't just hold art -- they felt like they carried someone's pulse. She'd noticed it last night but was too tired to process. Now, in daylight, it was impossible not to see.
The first thing she caught was the smell. Not just coffee -- though there was the faint aroma of that somewhere deeper inside -- but the sharper scent of turpentine, the woody note of varnish, the faint tang of metal. She didn't know why she recognized it until her gaze drifted down the hall and stopped at a doorway left slightly ajar. Light spilled out, muted and golden, like the kind that makes dust hang in the air.
Damien's studio.
She hesitated at first, fingers curled against the edge of the wall. She wasn't sure if walking in was crossing a line. Studios were private things -- she'd learned that much from the way some of her classmates reacted when someone leaned too close to their sketchbooks. It was like stepping into someone's mind before they decided if they wanted you there.
"Curious already?"
His voice came from behind her, low but not teasing, and she startled slightly, spinning to find Damien leaning against the wall just a few feet away. He was dressed simply, black T-shirt and joggers, hair slightly mussed as if he'd only run his hands through it once after getting out of bed. There was a coffee mug in his hand, steam curling upward in lazy threads.
She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips told her he wasn't accusing. Still, her voice came out softer than she intended.
"I wasn't going to… I just..."
"You can go in," he said, tilting his head toward the door. "If you're going to be here, you might as well see it."
The permission didn't erase the feeling that she was intruding, but it made her step forward anyway. She pushed the door fully open, and her first thought was that the room didn't belong to the same apartment.
The walls were a mix of pale canvas and raw brick, tall windows spilling daylight across everything. There was no polished, minimalist perfection here; this space was lived in, worked in, breathed in. An easel stood in the center with a half-finished piece she couldn't quite make out from this angle, the paint strokes still thick and wet. Brushes of every size filled jars, their tips stained with color. Tubes of paint lay scattered across a low table, some twisted almost flat, others new and gleaming. The air smelled richer here, layered with the history of a hundred projects.
Her eyes caught on the far wall -- lined not just with paintings but with pinned sketches, test swatches, even small scraps of notes. The kind of chaos that somehow still made sense.
"This is…" She trailed off, searching for a word. Beautiful felt too small. Intimate felt too personal.
"Messy?" Damien offered from behind her, stepping into the room. He set his mug on the table with a soft clink.
She shook her head, still scanning the room. "Not messy. More like… alive."
He didn't answer right away, but when she turned to glance at him, she found his gaze wasn't on the room -- it was on her. The weight of it was brief, almost easy to dismiss if she hadn't felt it, the kind of look that said he was studying her reaction as much as she was studying his work.
Her eyes darted away, back to a corner where a covered canvas leaned against the wall. The cloth draped over it was smudged with streaks of cobalt and ochre, as if it had been brushed in passing with wet paint. She wondered if he'd ever let her see what was under it.
"Do you paint here every day?" she asked, partly to fill the silence.
"When I can." He moved past her, brushing by close enough for her to catch the faint scent of his soap -- clean, understated, nothing like the sharp colognes she'd known on other men. He began picking up scattered tubes of paint, not really organizing them, just clearing enough space on the table. "Sometimes I'll go weeks without touching a brush. Then I'll paint for three days straight."
She smiled faintly. "Sounds… intense."
"That's one word for it." His tone carried something unreadable, a layer that might have been amusement, might have been something else entirely.
For a moment, she just stood there, taking in how naturally he moved in this space, how everything seemed to bend toward him. The room felt like an extension of him -- grounded but restless, disciplined but streaked with bursts of color.
"You can use the light in here if you ever want to read or work on something," he said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Just don't touch anything on the easel."
Her lips curved. "Afraid I'll ruin it?"
"Afraid you'll change it," he replied simply, and for a second she couldn't tell if he meant the painting or something else.
She lingered in the studio longer than she meant to, wandering toward the windows. The city stretched out below, buildings glinting in the morning sun. She rested her palm lightly on the cool glass, her reflection faint beside the skyline. She could feel Damien's presence behind her, not close enough to touch but close enough that the air shifted.
When she finally turned, he was watching her again -- not in an obvious, lingering way, but in a quiet, assessing one, as if she'd done something without realizing it that had caught his attention.
It was strange, the way he looked at her. Not like Logan ever had, not like she was someone to be charmed or won over. More like she was a puzzle, and he was in no hurry to solve it.