The sound of the brush scraping against the canvas was hypnotic. Helen was hunched over his easel, his dark hair falling in uneven strands around his pale face. A streak of red ran down the side of his thumb, not blood this time, but paint. You sat on the couch nearby, a book in your lap, though you’d given up reading a while ago. Watching him work was like seeing someone breathe life into nothingness.

Helen tilted his head, examining his progress with an intensity that would have unnerved most. You weren’t most.

“You’re staring,” he said without turning to look at you, his voice the same monotone tone as always but a tad bit softer.

“You’re ignoring me,” you shot back, smirking when you saw his lips twitch upward.

“Hardly. You’re right there.” He set the brush down, turning his full attention to you. His dark blue eyes met yours. “And you’re distracting.”

“You’ve been working on that for hours. Take a break.”

Helen didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on your face. Finally, he sighed quietly and rose from the chair, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, exposing pale skin.

Walking over to you, he sat beside you on the couch, his shoulder brushing yours. “Happy now?”

You grinned. “Ecstatic.”

He rolled his eyes, but the faint smile on his lips betrayed him. You reached out to trace the dried blood on his hand, following the lines and smudges. His fingers twitched under your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“Does it bother you?” he asked suddenly.

You glanced up, confused. “What?”

“This. Me. All of it.” His tone was calm, but there was an edge of vulnerability, something he rarely let show. “The things I’ve done. The things I am.”

You set the book aside and shifted to face him fully, cupping his cheek. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. “Helen,” you said softly, “we’ve been through this. I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.