Can I kiss you?

Liam stared at the open door for a long time after Anisha walked out, her heels clicking down the hallway like a countdown. The silence that followed was deafening. His apartment, once full of art and ideas and color, now felt airless. Wrong. Like a painting with one harsh stroke that ruined the entire canvas.
She’d come by unannounced. Used the key he’d never asked for back.
When he saw the photo, her perfectly manicured hand trailing the edge of his painting, the caption beneath reading “my baby made this”—his stomach had dropped. It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t for her. That painting was a birthday gift for one of his oldest, most important clients. A deeply personal piece, commissioned with stories and memories and layers of trust.
Anisha had claimed it was just marketing. “I was helping,” she’d said, smiling like it was no big deal. “You never know who might see it.”
But he knew the truth. She didn’t understand his work. Not the way she used to pretend she did. Not the way she wanted the benefits of it without the soul behind it.
He confronted her. “You don’t get it,” Liam said, his voice low, but steady. “This isn’t just a painting. This is my work, Anisha. You can’t just use it to get attention. It’s not yours.”
Her smile faltered, but she still didn’t see it. “It’s just business, Liam. I was trying to help you.”
He could feel the anger rising. It wasn’t the first time she’d brushed aside something that mattered to him. It wasn’t the first time she’d wanted to shape him into something that fit her world. The world of expectations, of images, of convenience.
But it wasn’t his world.
“I don’t need help with my career like this,” he said, his tone sharper now. “I need someone who understands me. Who respects my work.”
She blinked, unbothered. “You’re being dramatic.”
Liam’s chest tightened. “You’re missing the point, Anisha. You’ve crossed a line. I need more than what you’re offering. More than the games. More than pretending we’re something we’re not. And I think it’s time we stop pretending.”
Her face twisted, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “So what, you’re just going to throw everything away?” Her face twisted, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “You never said anything about marriage, sure, but I told my parents we were planning it. Because it’s going to happen eventually. Isn’t it? You’re not serious, right?”
“We never talked about it,” he shot back, his words firm. “I didn’t say that. You did. But now, I think I know exactly what I need. And it’s not this. It’s not you.”
A cold silence followed, thick and suffocating. Her expression faltered, but she didn’t speak.
“I think we’re done,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s over, Anisha.”
She stared at him, frozen, then turned without another word. The door clicked shut behind her, and all he could hear was the sound of his own breath, harsh and ragged.
He stood in the middle of his studio, surrounded by canvases that still smelled of linseed oil and turpentine, and felt completely and utterly alone. The love they’d had, whatever was left of it—had unraveled, thread by thread, until all that remained was expectation and assumption.
By the time the door closed behind her, he knew it was over.
And the only thing he wanted, the only thing he could think about was Sam.
Not the way she looked, though she was beautiful. Not the way she smiled, though it undid him every time. It was the way she listened. The way she didn't ask for anything, didn’t expect him to perform, to impress. She saw him without the pretense.
Without thinking, he grabbed his keys and walked out.
Wick’s Diner was still buzzing when he stepped inside, but all the noise dimmed when he saw her.
She was at a table, balancing two plates in one hand and scribbling an order with the other. Her hair was pulled back, a few loose strands falling near her cheek, and her apron was smudged like she hadn’t stopped moving in hours. But her eyes—the moment they met his—lit with something that flickered fast and bright, even though she tried to play it off.
He knew she’d seen him the second he walked in.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile too much. Just slipped into a booth near the window like he had every right to be there.
She didn’t rush over. She moved through the space like she belonged to it, like the place leaned on her to keep spinning. And he watched—openly, shamelessly—as she laughed softly at a customer’s joke, adjusted a salt shaker, scribbled on her notepad. She floated and anchored all at once.
When she finally came to his table, she raised an eyebrow, and Liam felt the corner of his mouth tilt without permission.
“You again?” she asked, her voice cool, but he caught the faint tremor beneath it.
Liam leaned in, resting his arms on the table. “I told myself I wouldn’t come,” he said, low enough for just her. “That I’d give it time. Space. Be patient.” He grinned. “But clearly, I’m not very good at that.”
She rolled her eyes, but the curve of her lips betrayed her. “What can I get you?”
“You already know what I want.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly in a way that made his chest ache.
“You,” he said, because the truth didn’t need dressing up.
Her reaction was everything. A barely perceptible pause, then a smirk. “How about a burger instead?”
He chuckled. “Fine. But only if you sit with me when you’re done pretending I’m just another customer.”
When Sam returned with his food, her expression was composed, but her hands gave her away—fidgeting slightly as she placed the plate in front of him. Liam looked up at her, letting the moment stretch, letting her feel how much he meant it. He held her hand briefly. 
“I’ll wait for you,” he said quietly, catching her eyes.
She blinked, hesitant and tried to dissuade him but he insisted.
He didn’t leave.
He nursed his coffee and waited for her like she was the only reason he came—and she was.
When her shift ended, she stepped outside and found him leaning against his car, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
She nodded toward the sleek frame. “Nice car.”
He smiled. “Nice girl.”
Then he opened the door for her, and she slid in without hesitation.
In the car, he leaned in to fasten her seatbelt, but the moment his fingers grazed her waist, time seemed to pause.
Sam…” he said, barely above a whisper.
She looked up, eyes meeting his, wide and unreadable. For a breathless moment, they just stared—locked in something deeper, heavier.
He could’ve kissed her. God, he wanted to.
But instead, he clicked the buckle into place and slowly leaned back, his jaw clenched with restraint.
The moment passed. A heartbeat too long. A kiss left hanging.
And he already regretted not taking it.
———
The bistro he chose wasn’t fancy, but it was warm—brick walls, low lights, candles flickering on each table. It was intimate enough that her shoulders relaxed as soon as they stepped in. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her shirt, still in her work clothes.
“I can’t believe you didn’t warn me. You could’ve texted. I look like I came straight from work.” she said, taking in the couples dressed like they were headed to a gallery opening.
He grinned, picking up the menu. “You did come straight from work.”
“Exactly my point.”
“You look great, Sam.” His voice dropped just slightly and she looked up. “Honestly, you could’ve walked in wearing a trash bag and still made this whole place look better.”
She scoffed, and a pinkish blush appeared on her cheeks.
Over dinner, Liam found himself talking more than he meant to. Not about Anisha—he wasn’t ready for that—but about his art.
“Painting feels like trying to catch something before it vanishes,” he said, eyes on his fork. “A memory. A feeling. Something that mattered for a second and then…” He trailed off.
He glanced up. Sam was watching him—really watching him—not with pity or fascination, but quiet understanding.
“Does it work?” she asked.
He gave a small shrug. “Sometimes. And when it does, it’s like... I don’t know. Breathing. Finally.”
Her lips curved slightly, not in a smirk but something gentler. Like she saw through him and didn’t flinch.
And that, somehow, meant everything.
They laughed. Talked. Ate slowly. Time stretched and folded around them like a soft blanket. “She told him a little about her brother, and he opened up more about his art.”
After dinner, he drove her home as she gave him directions. The streets were quiet, the city humming low and golden under the streetlights. When they pulled up to her building, he didn’t move to unlock the doors.
She turned to him, hand on the handle. “Thanks for tonight.”
He reached out and caught her hand.
Sam?”
She looked at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
“Can I kiss you?”
The air between them became charged, fragile.
She didn’t answer with words, she leaned in. He met her halfway.
The kiss wasn’t slow. It wasn’t tentative. It was fire meeting air, days of quiet longing exploding in one breathtaking collision. Her hand tangled in his hair. His arm wrapped around her waist. They kissed like they’d been waiting years for this, like the night might burn out if they didn’t hold onto it.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, she was smiling.
“I should go,” she whispered.
He didn’t want to let go of her hand. “I know.”
She opened the door. Looked back once, eyes shining.
“Goodnight, Liam.”
“Goodnight, Sam.”
 And then she was gone.
 But her warmth lingered like paint on his fingers, stubborn and impossible to forget.