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~Velma’s POV
I was standing in front of the canvas, brush hovering, the room quiet except for the soft scratch of bristles against texture. That in-between moment. Where the painting is almost there, but not quite. I like that part. It feels honest.
The door opened behind me.
I did not turn immediately. I already knew the weight of his steps.
Theron.
I smiled before I even faced him. That kind of smile that happens without permission. I dropped the brush and walked to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He smelled like outside and effort and something steady.
“That was fast,” I said into his chest, surprised.
He laughed softly, tired in that real way that settles in the shoulders. “You have no idea,” he said. “All Dylan talked about were his achievements. One after the other
