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“So,” I say, gesturing to the packages with my free hand. “Where do I start?”

Alex’s eyes gleam. She gestures loosely with her glass around the room. “Anywhere… everywhere…”

I set my flute down beside hers and drop to my knees. I reach for one of the square boxes stacked near the wooden leg of the desk. The wrapping paper is a thick silver, tied with a deep burgundy ribbon. I pull the ribbon loose and tear the paper away, revealing a sleek, unbranded wooden box.

I unlatch the small metal clasp and flip the lid open. Nestled inside, perfectly organized in velvet-lined grooves, is a complete set of professional-grade oil paints. And they happen to be the same artisanal brand I kept drooling over online, before deciding the shipping costs were too irresponsible to justify.

“Alex,” I breathe, my fingers hovering over the beautiful metal tubes of cerulean, cadmium red, and raw umber. “These are… these are…”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Magic,” she says, her tone attempting to stay casual, though the unmistakable pride in her voice gives her away.

I reach for the next square box, tearing into it with significantly less grace. It contains a stunning assortment of premium hog-bristle and sable brushes, nestled in a hand-stitched leather roll.

I take her face in both my hands and kiss her once.

“Thank you,” I say, against her lips.

“You’re welcome.” She pats my cheek. “Keep going.”

With every layer of paper I tear away, my excitement compounds. I am buzzing, the artist in me already mixing colors and sketching outlines in my head. Which is great, because the flat rectangular shapes turn out to be a half-dozen gallery-profile canvases.

“Where are we going to put all these?” I ask as I shuffle over to the final, largest items: a long cylindrical tube and a tall box. I rip the paper off the box first, revealing the polished mahogany of a gorgeous studio easel. It’s a masterpiece of woodwork, complete with a crank mechanism to adjust the height and a built-in storage tray.

“Oh, my god,” I whisper, running my hand over the smooth wood of the unassembled frame. “Alex, this is… I don’t even have the words. It’s incredible,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “But seriously, where the hell am I going to put all of this? The easel alone is massive.”

Alex doesn’t answer immediately. She lowers her glass, her lips curving into an impossibly fond smile. She slides off the desk and crouches down on the rug right in front of me, gesturing to the room around us.

“Look around, love.”

I blink, my eyes scanning the office, piecing together the implications of her words.

“But how? This is your office.”

“I only need the desk and a chair,” Alex says. “The entire left half of this room by the windows gets the best natural light in the whole apartment.”

“Alex… no. You need this space to work.”

“What I need is you,” she corrects, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And what I want is to sit at my desk, look over and see you painting.” She leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “We’re redecorating, love. Welcome to your new studio.”

Chapter Ten

My new studio.

I turn slowly, taking it in with fresh eyes—the wide, east-facing windows I’ve complimented a thousand times, the empty spaces, the minimalist furniture. My gaze catches on the two abstract pieces Alex had custom-framed months ago, hanging in perfect symmetry on the far wall. They had always looked a little lonely in here.

In my mind’s eye, the room is rearranging itself to match them. The easel anchors the corner by the windows, angled to catch the morning sun; the low credenza could be the perfect staging area to unfurl the leather brush roll and lay out the velvet-lined box of oils.

“I love you,” I say, which is woefully inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got.

Alex leans in to press a feather-light kiss to my cheek. “I love you too.”

I swallow hard, my hands dropping into my lap as I look from the beautiful wooden pieces of the easel back to her. “Thank you. Seriously, Alex. It’s… it’s so much more than a gift.” My voice wavers, betraying me.

Alex smiles affectionately. She reaches up for her flute and takes another small sip. Her gaze slides from me to the disassembled frame resting in its box on the floor.