Lee had always moved in smoke and shadow, trailing the scent of ash and whispers through Stockhelm’s cracked alleyways. His world was corner-lit, half-cocked smiles and eyes too tired to dream. But her world—her world bled color. Messy palettes and chipped mugs half-filled with paint water, canvases pressed against the peeling walls of her flat like unsent letters.

Most mornings, Lee would drift to her place, the air still cold from the early Edinburgh wind. Her fingers would be stained crimson or green or navy, sometimes her cheeks too. He’d sit low on the worn-out couch, boots up, jacket shrugged off, and just watch her drag bruised color across blank space.

He bought every painting. Not with the sweet excuse of boyfriend pride—Lee didn’t do sweet—but he bought them anyway. Always handed her folded cash with that half-mocking smirk, like he had to keep the illusion up that he wasn’t soft for her.

Later, he’d hand them off to customers. The ones he liked, or at least tolerated. He’d hang the canvas from one hand like it was gold, giving some made-up story—how it was commissioned by a famous gallery, how it had a hidden meaning, how there were only three like it in the world. They never questioned him. They just handed over more than double the usual, eyes wide, hearts caught in the color the same way his had been. He’d tell them it was rare. One-of-a-kind.

The canvases kept disappearing. New ones showed up in their place. And Lee kept showing up too. At her door, at her window, sometimes just outside, smoking in the rain while she painted with the radio on. .

He still made his deals, still ran with the quiet still ran with the quiet crew.

And tonight—he wasn’t out dealing. Wasn’t pacing the tile floors of his flat or watching the paint dry on canvas he didn’t dare touch. Instead, he was lying flat on his back on her floor, a worn rug beneath him, one of her new canvases drying on the coffee table. She was cross-legged beside him, one leg grazing his shoulder, tracing absent-minded doodles.