boxer ⋆ luke hemmings ✔️

47. Clouds.

Mia Jacobsen was an artist.

A painter, to be more specific. She liked taking photographs of monuments, of the odd interesting character passing by, of lakes and trees and rivers that surrounded picturesque clearings. Then she'd save them; references to paint for later.

Her favourite thing to work on used to be the clouds. Luke could remember a time in his life when she'd put the brush down in frustration, for it was much harder than it seemed. A cloud looked simple, but the technique in order to make it look realistic was far beyond complex.

Her wrist had to move in a certain direction, fingers had to flex a certain way. She had to flick the bristles upwards and catch the paint before it could spread across the canvas any more, and then she had to continue it; white against blue, brush against surface.

But there was a point that Mia had gotten to where the clouds soon became child's play. She became successful in the way she did it, from the creation of blank colour blobs to the efficient, individual strokes of the art tool in her hand.

She'd then move onto painting figures in the clouds, adding detail without making it seem too extravagant. And Luke would watch her with patient, awed eyes; his blues concentrated on her concentrating on something else.

He'd never forget; he'd never be able to. The focus on her face said it all. She wasn't good at most things, Mia herself was aware of that, but painting was different.

He knew that her favourite thing to paint was angels. Angels in the clouds, angels above cities, angels with wings spread and wings cut. The intricate use of blues and greens mixed with white to create shadows was something the young girl had loved to do dearly, and she'd showcase her talent through the developing figures painted across the canvas with ease and familiarity.

And maybe, Luke thought, that Mia loved angels so much that she became one.

Sophie could feel a shiver run down her spine at his words, the way a tense breath left his mouth as he uttered them. It wasn't entirely what she'd expected, but she'd always had a feeling that the reason the young woman was no longer around wasn't be a pleasant one— hearing it, however, and hearing it outright, was very different.

She was a painter, an artist. She was a young girl with a bubbly mindset who wanted nothing but the best for her son and the man who fathered him; the man who was currently telling his present girlfriend everything about his past because she'd managed to go through the trouble of asking.

And Mia Jacobsen was also dead.

Murdered, more like- and in cold, vicious, unforgiving blood.

Sophie didn't know what to say, didn't know whether to comfort Luke or to stay stationary just in case he had gotten over it already. But she wasn't about to yank her guard up, to put on a stoic face, to tell him that the past is the past and to move onto greener pastures; no. That wasn't the right way to deal with a situation like this.

First loves were always painful. And regardless of how Luke had been her own, Sophie had long since accepted the fact that she may not have been his. And that was okay.

He told her everything, even though some parts made the girl want to cover her ears and cry for the rest of the night. It was the details, not even just the description of what murder took place where; a blow to the head, a stab somewhere else, a broken-boned body stuffed underneath the covers of the double bed that Luke came home to every. Single. Night.

And with Corey, little, innocent Corey, sleeping soundlessly in the room next door.

It was horrific. There wasn't any other appropriate way Sophie could even think about to describe it. It was horrific but it also had justice, for the man who did it was now behind bars; alongside his son, the boy that Sophie knew as Rick Morane.