He's a Fighter & I'm a Runner

TWENTY-TWO

I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. I couldn't even pick a color to start with. My brush was clean and the paint was untouched.

The doorbell suddenly rang, bringing me out of my thoughts. I sighed and put the palate and brush down to get the door. It's useless just staring at it. If I don't have an idea for a half hour, then it's never going to come.

I quickly skipped down the cool marble staircase to get the door. I was still in my light pink button-up pajama shirt and matching short shorts.

I opened the door to see Luke. I furrowed my eyebrows. "Why aren't you at school?" I asked him.

"I should be asking you that, but I know what day it is." He replied.

I sighed. "I just wasn't in the mood." I opened the door wider for him to come in. He looked me up and down as I did so.

"Why are you answering the door in that?" He gruffly asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I can see a lot of skin."

Oh. I get it. "Don't worry about it. Nobody except my dad and apparently you come here."

"What about solicitors?"

I was about to close the door but stopped and opened it again. I pointed to the 'no soliciting' sign on the front down in neat gold cursive over the royal blue background.

"Right." He grumbled.

I shut the door and locked it and led him to my living room. "Are you hungry? It should be around lunch now."

"Only if you'll cook it." He shrugged.

I chuckled. "Okay. I'll cook it. What do you want?"

"Anything. I have a fight tomorrow though, so maybe something with protein." He suggested.

"I'll do a fillet mignon with lemon garlic sauce and some bacon, green onion, and cheese mashed potatoes." I got up to go to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home."

"My mouth is already watering." He said as he started following me to the kitchen.

I stopped when I didn't hear footsteps anymore. I turned around to see Luke admiring one of the painting I did in the city. I instantly blushed.

I felt as if I needed his approval. All I wanted in that moment was for him to tell me he likes it. Maybe he doesn't know it's my work.

"When did you paint this?" He asked.

Okay so he knew.

"What makes you think I did?"

"I can tell. It's your style."

"What exactly is my style?" I asked curiously and softly.

"You get this feeling when you look at your paintings. It's sort of like finding calmness and satisfaction in a lonely and dark world, but it's a little more to it. It's like there's so much beauty in it that you wouldn't think there would be. It's kind of hard to explain." He shrugged.

"Hmm. My paintings weren't always like that. They used to be full of the vibrant reds of leaves, golden rays of sun, and the deep greens of evergreen trees in the snow. It sort of changed after..." I trailed off.

We stood there for a few moments in a comfortable silence. He admired my painting, examining every detail like he could know everything about me from it, memorizing every aspect of myself to never forget. I stood there waiting for him to say something, hoping that he likes it.