Midnight Muse

I lick my lips before realizing that in the quiet of the apartment, Knox is fast asleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest gives him away. That, and the fact that he’s not snarking at me or shooting daggers in my direction.

It’s my one saving grace.

The coffee table shoved in front of the couch is littered with cups and rolling papers, alcohol a puddle across its surface. I have no idea how the glass tabletop has survived the rowdy party unscathed, because I’m pretty sure there was one point in the night where I saw a girl standing on top of it, readying herself to fall into the crowd of people congregated in the living room.

The floor is much the same and I feel like I’m walking through a minefield as I tiptoe around the questionable puddles and garbage. The stench of alcohol in the air makes my head spin and my stomach protests strongly. I press the back of my hand to my nose, trying to block out the smells.

Luckily, I escape the apartment without waking Knox. Unluckily, when I release a sigh of relief, the remainders of my final drink creep up my throat.

I make a dash for my apartment, and thankfully, Rory answers my desperate knocking.

I don’t like that knowing look that she’s wearing, but she doesn’t pester me as I race my way to the bathroom.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take me long to get ready for class.

I told Rory to go on without me when she knocked softly on the door while I had my face in the toilet, but the sound still rang in my head like a gong. She told me she was going to get coffee with Ace before class and asked if I wanted anything, to which I gratefully accepted.

Even though I have plans to meet Reid at the coffeehouse later, I need something now or I’m afraid I won’t make it through the day.

As badly as I want to stay in bed and be a hermit today, I don’t want to miss class. Beatrice is bringing in another model and grading our in-class work and I don’t want to be docked points for missing out.

And Art History is Art History. There’s no escaping the clutches of a near-failing grade.

I doubt Odie will take it easy on me when I show up in my oversized sweatshirt and baseball cap, but maybe if I bring him a coffee, he’ll be too preoccupied to tease.

Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I snag my sketchbook from my desk, shoving all of the loose papers hanging out of the edges back inside. It’s a haphazard job at best, but I’m already running too late for my liking, and I can organize them later.

Like while I wait for this stupid fucking elevator the apartment building has.

The queasiness in my stomach has gone down but the piece of toast I forced myself to eat threatens to come right back up when I spot Knox with his own backpack propped over his shoulder, waiting for the elevator.

I can still go back inside and hide, there’s definitely still time to—oh fuck, he’s turning around.

His jade eyes glitter with amusement and I can’t shove away the shiver that slides down my spine when he looks at me like that. It feels like a brush dipped in paint dragging across my skin when he trails me from head to toe.

I’m embarrassed, to say the least; more so when he asks, “Sleep well?”

The sound of his voice makes my knees weak. I trip through my next step and my sketchbook goes flying from my hands as I try to catch myself, the papers I just stuffed inside spilling everywhere.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear Knox curse in surprise, but all I can feel is the boiling mortification slicing through my body. There are sketches of him in there, fluttering to the ground. One I had drawn while I was supposed to be working on my next assignment for drawing class. He’d been a source of inspiration for me, and there are sketches of him in all sorts of poses, some more precarious than others, and I’m completely and utterly fucked if he sees them.

I drop to my knees, face burning as I scoop the papers closer to me, praying that he doesn’t see what’s on them. Knox is already crouching low, helping gather some of the drawings, and the fact that this is going to be the first time he’s seeing any of my work is overshadowed by the fact that there’s a thick piece of drawing paper right next to his boot. It’s creased from the fall, half of it turned up at an angle. I can see the lines of his scars I tried so hard to recreate from memory. If he picks that one up, I’ll have to transfer schools.

“Don’t touch that!” I screech when his fingers close around the edge of the paper. I watch it in slow motion, the clench of his jaw, the way that his eyes flick down to his hands, roughened and scarred flesh on full display. Oh no. I think I might throw up all over again when I realize the connection he’s making.

He thinks that I mean I don’t want him touching my things because of his hands.

My throat tightens, heart beating so fast in my chest that I’m sure it’s going to burst through my skin. Quickly, I try to rectify my words, pleading, “No.” My voice cracks around the lump quickly forming in my throat but I push past it. “Knox, I didn’t mean it like that.”

His face is tight as he stands. I scramble, collecting my papers in my arms. He towers over me, even when I rise, and I don’t like the flicker of muscle in his jaw because he’s clenching his teeth so hard.

I don’t like the darkness writhing through those green eyes, molten with anger.

He hands out the papers he’s picked up and an apology sits on the tip of my tongue. Reaching out, I’m about the grasp them and croak out a thank you when Knox drops them.

I watch them slip to the ground again. The elevator dings and the doors squeal open, but I can’t stop staring at my drawings sitting on the floor. I swallow hard, the humiliation prickling at the back of my eyes.

Knox’s boots twist in the corner of my vision and he enters the elevator without a single word.