Chapter 6: Daylight Reckoning
The first thing Sloane became aware of was the warmth. It was a deep, solid heat along her back, the weight of an arm draped possessively over her waist. The second was the sound—a soft, rhythmic scratching, like a mouse in the wall, but closer.
She blinked, the world swimming into focus. Pale morning light filtered through the large window, painting Kieran’s loft in shades of gold and grey. She was curled on her side, facing the back of the couch, tucked against the length of him. His breathing was even against her neck.
The scratching came again.
She shifted minutely, peering over her shoulder.
Kieran was propped on an elbow behind her, his focus absolute. In his hand was a small, leather-bound sketchbook, and a piece of charcoal danced between his fingers, making that quiet, persistent sound on the page. He was studying her, his eyes flicking from her face to the paper and back, his expression one of unguarded concentration.
He was drawing her.
A flush of self-conscious heat crept up her neck. She’d been sketched in life-drawing classes, of course, but this was different. This was intimate, stolen. She kept her breathing even, playing possum, watching him through her lashes.
His brow was furrowed, his mouth a soft, serious line. He was capturing the mess of her hair on the pillow, the line of her shoulder where the sheet had slipped down. There was no flirtation in his gaze, no lust. It was something purer, more analytical, and somehow more exposing.
He noticed her shift in breathing. His hand stilled.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
She rolled onto her back to face him fully. The movement made the sheet dip lower. His eyes followed the path, darkening for a fraction of a second before returning to hers. “Is this a habit? Sketching unsuspecting women in their sleep?”
“Only the ones who break into my bar and critique my life’s work,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. He didn’t close the book.
“Let me see.”
He hesitated, his knuckles whitening around the spine.
“Come on, Blackwood. You drew me naked last night with your hands. This can’t be more intimidating.”
He let out a short, surprised laugh and handed it over.
Sloane sat up, pulling the sheet with her. The drawing wasn’t a finished portrait. It was a collection of lines, a study. He’d captured the slope of her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw in sleep. But it was the eyes, even closed, that held a startling vitality. He’d given her a quiet strength, a peace she never felt when she was awake. He’d seen past the freckles and the sharp wit to something calmer, something steadier.
“It’s…” She trailed off, her throat tight. “You made me look… sure of myself.”
“You are,” he said simply. “Even when you’re terrified. Especially then.”
She looked from the drawing to him, this man covered in armor of his own making, who wielded a piece of charcoal with more honesty than he did his own words. “You’re better than you let on.”
“It’s just lines.” He plucked the book from her hands and tossed it onto the floor. It landed with a soft thud next to the discarded towel from the night before.
“It’s not,” she argued, but he was already leaning in, silencing her with a kiss that tasted of sleep and him. It was slow, deep, a languid exploration that felt like a continuation of the night before.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. “The bar opens in a few hours. I have to deal with deliveries.”
“The thrilling life of a barkeep.”
“Someone has to keep the whiskey flowing for struggling artists.” He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Stay. There’s coffee. I’ll be back up by ten.”
He slid out of bed, and the cold air rushed in to take his place. Sloane watched him move around the loft, pulling on jeans, a fresh t-shirt. He was all fluid muscle and quiet efficiency, a different man from the shattered one who’d appeared at her door or the intense artist of minutes before. He was a collection of contradictions she was desperately trying to solve.
After he left, the silence of the loft felt different. It was no longer his absence; it was a space he had invited her to inhabit. She wrapped herself in the sheet and padded to the kitchen, finding the coffee as promised. Mug in hand, she wandered back toward the couch, her eyes landing on the sketchbook on the floor.
It felt like a violation, but a necessary one.
She picked it up and sat, curling her legs beneath her. The pages were thick, textured. She flipped past her own sleeping face and found a world.
There were quick, angry sketches of bar patrons, their features exaggerated into grotesque masks. Detailed studies of his own hands, the tattoos rendered with photographic precision. A half-finished dragon, its wing bleeding off the edge of the paper. And then, scattered throughout, were pieces of her. The curve of her smile from across the bar. The back of her head, her red hair a wild splash of ink. A study of her hands, holding a paintbrush.
He’d been watching her, collecting her, long before the bar fight, long before the rain-soaked apology.
The final drawing made her breath catch. It was the two of them, a tangle of limbs in this very bed, rendered in soft, smudged charcoal. It was all suggestion and shadow, but the emotion was blisteringly clear. It was need, and solace, and a fear so profound it felt like hope.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs and quickly closed the book, placing it back exactly where it had fallen. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Kieran came back in, smelling of cold air and the faint, yeasty scent of the brewery delivery. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes flicking from her face to the sketchbook on the floor and back again. He knew. He always knew.
He didn’t call her on it. Instead, he just walked over, took her coffee mug from her hands, and took a sip.
“It’s cold,” he said.
“You were gone a while.”
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
“About how I don’t want you to leave.” The words were quiet, but they landed between them with the weight of a vow.
Sloane reached out, hooking her finger through a belt loop on his jeans and pulling him closer. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”
For now, the words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. For now, it was enough.