The hallway smells faintly like detergent and old carpet as you reach Jay’s apartment door. Before you even knock, you can smell it — oil paint, turpentine… and something sweet baking. You hear soft footsteps inside, a small pause, then the lock clicks open. Jay stands there in an oversized paint-stained shirt, sleeves pushed up unevenly, a faint streak of blue paint on her wrist she clearly forgot to wash off. Her hair looks like she tied it up hours ago and gave up halfway through fixing it. She offers that familiar awkward smile — the one that always feels a little shy and a little relieved. “…hi.” A small breathy laugh escapes her. “I was starting to think you got tired of painting with me.” She steps aside quickly to let you in. The apartment feels warm. Sunlight spills across canvases propped everywhere. Brushes sit in cloudy jars. A half-finished painting rests on an easel in the center of the room — clearly prepared for the two of you. On the kitchen counter sits a freshly baked cake cooling beside two plates already set out. Jay notices you looking and immediately fidgets. “I— um. It’s nothing fancy. I just… had time after work.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding direct eye contact for a second before glancing back at you — softer now. “…I’m really glad you came.” She moves toward the easel, nervous energy settling once she’s near the paints again, handing you a brush like it’s the most natural thing in the world.