Chapter Text
Cullen’s loft was quiet in the way only late evenings could be. The room was lit by candlelight, the flickering glow casting the space in warm shades, their light pooling in golden puddles on the walls and floor. Shadows danced on the ceiling, collecting in the corners.
Finley sat against the headboard, knees bent beneath the blanket, her journal open in her lap. She shifted occasionally to adjust the angle or avoid smudging the page. The charcoal she was using left soft black dust on her fingertips and the side of her hand. Her shirt had slipped off one shoulder a while ago, she hadn’t bothered to fix it, and the ends of her hair brushed her collarbone as she tipped her head forward.
Cullen was on the other side of the bed, half-reclined with his back against the headboard and hair mussed. One arm was propped behind his head while his other hand rested on the open pages of a book. He hadn’t turned the page in some time. She could feel him watching her.
The bed dipped, its wooden frame creaking. A moment later, she felt the soft press of his mouth to her bare shoulder. His familiar warm, dry lips brushed her skin, his stubble a rough contrast to their gentle touch.
He rested his chin on her, peering at her journal. “What are you drawing?” he asked.
She didn’t take her eyes off the page. “Foxglove—” she paused, frowning “—I think.”
“You think?” His voice rose in question.
She kept sketching. “Yes. I’m drawing from memory, so I think it’s foxglove.”
He made a soft noise like a chuckle he didn’t quite commit to, and she felt the bed shift as he leaned even closer. She didn’t mind.
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Teach me how to draw.”
Her hand stopped. She glanced at him, brow raised. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I want a new hobby.”
“With what free time?”
“I’ll make time,” he assured her.
She snorted. “Sure you will. In reality, you’ll try it twice, quit, then in three years complain you haven’t improved.”
“I will not,” he said, affronted in that gentle, harmless way of his.
She didn’t argue. Just hummed, unconvinced, and bent over her sketch again.
“Come on, Fin,” he pleaded, nudging her knee with his. “Teach me.”
She sighed, dragging her gaze from the page once more. “Fine.”
He moved immediately, shifting his entire body closer with far too much enthusiasm for the late hour. He crowded her side until she could barely move.
She shot him a flat look. “I need space to move my arms,” she said dryly.
He raised both hands, palms up in mock surrender, and scooted away, barely. She let it go.
Flipping to a fresh page, she handed both the journal and the charcoal to him. He settled the book awkwardly in his lap and stared at it.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now you draw,” she explained.
He glanced at her. “From memory?”
Fin shrugged. “If you want. It’s easier with a reference.”
“Well, what should I draw?”
“I don’t know, Cullen,” she said with a sigh. “It’s your sketch.”
He looked around the loft. His eyes bounced from the rafters to the washbasin, the tangle of boots by the ladder, and then back to her. His eyes lit up and he gave her a boyish grin.
Her face fell. “No,” she said firmly, already dreading it.
“Oh yes.”
“Cullen—” she started in warning.
“Just look here,” he said, shifting with exaggerated seriousness. He squared his shoulders and a look of concentration came over him as he examined her.
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “This is absurd.”
“Hold still.”
She glared at him as he leaned in, his fingers rising toward her face.
“What are you doing?” she asked in annoyance.
“Measuring.” His fingers splayed between her eyes, then her nostrils and then her lips.
She raised one brow. “With your hand?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes again and smirked. They were full of mirth.
“Maker’s breath,” she mumbled.
She didn’t get any more words out because Cullen kissed his fingers and pressed them to her lips, silencing her complaints. She fought back a smile. He was so infuriating and she loved it. Why did she love it?
He focused on his work, tongue pressed slightly between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration. He dragged the charcoal slowly across the page, pausing every few seconds to glance back up at her. She didn’t bother looking. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to see it.
Eventually, with far too much satisfaction, he turned the book toward her with a proud little flourish.
She stared.
It was awful, all lumpy and asymmetrical. One eye was bigger than the other. The nose, impossibly, seemed to point in two directions and her mouth looked like nothing more than a smudge. It was humanoid, at best.
“If you tilt your head, it looks better,” he offered, demonstrating helpfully.
She tilted her head. Nope. In fact, it looked worse.
“So, what do you think?” he asked expectantly.
“I think it’s terrible,” she replied. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
Cullen burst out laughing, his head tipping back. She watched him, warmth pulling at her chest. He had a nice laugh. It was ridiculous how much she liked it.
“It is horrendous, isn’t it?” he wheezed.
He handed her back the journal and charcoal. “Now will you show me how to actually do it? Please?”
She shifted the book onto her lap, balancing it on her thighs, and flipped to a new page. When she settled back, angled so he could see better, Cullen laid his arm across her shoulders, easing her into the crook of his body. Too close. She didn’t know how he expected her to be able to draw properly when she couldn’t move, but he was so warm so she didn't complain.
“You start with structure,” she explained, beginning to draw lightly. “Shape first, then shadows. See this?” She marked a light crosshatch where the brow should sit. “It helps with proportions.”
He leaned over her shoulder, eyes following the motion of her hand more than the lines.
“You build from the bones,” she continued.
Slowly, a face began to emerge. Cullen squinted at it, tilting his head in question.
“Is that me?” he asked.
“I needed a reference,” she explained.
He grinned, and continued watching as she added the line of his jaw, the soft furrow between his brows and the shape of his mouth, scar and all.
“It’s hard to capture you in black and white,” she muttered, almost to herself, “when your colors are all the shades of the sun.”
He didn’t reply, just looked at her in that way he sometimes did, like she was something he’d never quite figured out.
When the sketch was finished, she lifted the journal so he could see it more clearly. It was good. Not perfect, clearly rushed, but good.
He examined it for a moment before looking back at her. “Can I keep it?”
“Why?” she asked. “You know what you look like.”
He chuckled. “Maybe I need a reminder. I’ll hang it in my office.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
He leaned in and kissed her with a smile still on his lips. “You’re a better teacher than you think,” he murmured.
“You’re a worse artist than you think.”
He laughed into her cheek as he planted another kiss beside her mouth.