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When I finish the portrait, I will ship it to Tyler in the States. I have not told him I am doing it. Gifts are better when people cannot prepare an appropriately annoying reaction.
After Eevee, I will paint Lucas’s corgi, Milo. That one will be easier. Milo does not have the facial expression of an aristocrat judging the fall of civilization. Milo looks permanently delighted to be alive, even when there is nothing happening. Maybe especially when there is nothing happening.
A familiar crunch of gravel behind me announces footsteps.
I don’t look up from the canvas, deliberately flicking a tiny white highlight onto the cat’s whisker pad.
“If you stand in my light, you’re buying me a new set of brushes,” I say without turning.
A warm laugh sounds behind me. Then Dante bends down and kisses my right cheek, then my left. His beard brushes my skin. He smells like cedarwood, espresso, and the kind of expensive cologne that does not need to announce itself from across a room.
“Happy birthday, amore,” he says.
He’s holding a bundle of flowers wrapped in brown paper.
Pink lilies.
For a moment, I simply stare. Then take the bundle, letting the cool stems rest across my forearm, and tilt my head back with a dry smirk.
“Pink lilies,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Really? A six-foot-two guy covered in metal and ink getting a delicate bouquet of pink flowers. You’re entirely destroying my street cred, Dante.”
Dante’s mouth curves as he sits beside me on the bench.
“Everybody deserves flowers, Maksim,” he says calmly, dark eyes holding mine with nothing but care in them. “Especially on their birthday.”
A short, breathy laugh escapes my nose before I can stifle it. I look down at the lilies, my thumb brushing against the waxen edge of a petal. The smell is intoxicatingly sweet, heavy and real.
“Thank you,” I mumble, the defensive edge slipping out of my tone for half a second. “Honestly. It’s… nobody’s ever actually bought me flowers before.”
“Then I will bring you flowers every day if you want,” Dante replies, smooth as silk, without a drop of hesitation.
I glance at him. “Every day?”
“Every day.”
“That seems financially irresponsible.”
“I think I will survive.”
“You say that now. Wait until I develop standards. Pink lilies on weekdays, tulips on weekends, roses when I am feeling emotionally complicated.”
“I will take notes.”
I let out a small laugh before I can stop it.
The sound surprises me.
Dante looks pleased, but he does not make a big thing of it. He only rests a hand over mine for a moment, warm and grounding, before his attention shifts toward the canvas.
“Did you go out last night?” he asks.
“To the club?” I ask, dipping my brush into the water glass, watching the clear liquid swirl into a murky, cloudy violet. “Of course I did. I wasn’t going to spend midnight of my birthday staring at the ceiling.”
“And how was it?”
“It was great,” I shrug, keeping my eyes fixed on the dirty water. “I did the midnight countdown with a bunch of random strangers on the dance floor. Drank something neon, yelled until my throat hurt, and went to bed with ringing ears. Felt good.”
Silence settles between us.
