I suck in a breath, the full impact of his words washing over me. He hadn’t painted since his parents died. “Are those the first ones you’ve done? Since?”

He nods, letting me put together the unspoken sentiment on my own.

The first thing Jack painted since the death of his parents was my flowers.

“If I hadn’t snooped, would you ever have shown them to me?” The words come out in a squeak of a whisper, my lungs barely functioning enough for me to breathe, let alone speak.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know, Sade. I wish I could give you a different answer, but I’m not going to lie to you.”

“How does it feel? To be painting again after such a long time?” There’s clearly still so much I don’t know about Jack, and his history, but this obviously isn’t just a hobby. Or wasn’t just a hobby.

“After what I said to you, you’re concerned about my feelings?” He shoves his hand through his hair, and this time the curls stay pulled back from his face.

“You were justifiably upset and said something dickish out of anger. It’s not the end of the world.” I fail to mention just how badly a comment like his actually hurts since I can see he genuinely feels bad. And it’s not his fault I’m programmed to run all insults on a loop inside my brain forever until the end of time.

He scoots closer to me on the couch, close enough to reach over and pick up my hand. “That’s not an excuse. You didn’t deserve that, even if I was upset. You shouldn’t have to suffer because I’m still an emotional disaster.”

I squeeze his hand. “You’re not an emotional disaster.”

“I am. But maybe slightly less of one since you came around.” He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. “And it feels really good to be painting again.”

“You painted my flowers.”

“I did.”

“They’re beautiful.” I meet his gaze, my breath fluttering in my chest once again.

“You inspired me.” He leans in and brushes the softest kiss on my cheek.

But before I can fully register the sensation of his lips on my skin, he’s pulling away, rising from the couch.

“I’ll let you get back to work.” He crosses over to the basement stairs, pausing at the top. “When we do this, Sade—and for me, it’s a when, not an if—I want to be all in. I want to give you everything. I’m just not there yet. But I’m trying.” He flashes me a half smile before heading down the stairs.

Like I’m going to be able to work after that.