Painting in the corner

Sam stared at her phone like it held a secret she couldn’t quite crack. The message from Liam had arrived earlier that morning: “Friday, 7pm. Rosewood Gallery. Hope you can make it.”
No frills. No extra words. Just that.
She read it six times brushing her teeth, three more while tying her shoes. It wasn’t that she expected a sonnet, or for him to text her every day with updates about his breakfast or what color he was painting that afternoon. But still, after a kiss like that, she thought there’d be... more.
Instead, it was radio silence.
A part of her wanted to text back something breezy, like “Looking forward to it!” But she hesitated. What if he didn’t mean anything by it? What if the invitation was just... polite? Obligatory?
She shoved the thought away as she walked through the swinging doors of Wick’s Diner, already dreading the conversation she was about to have.
“Hey, Terry?” she asked, approaching her manager at the counter.
Terry didn’t look up from the coffee pot. “We’re out of oat milk again, and the espresso machine’s acting like it’s on strike.”
Sam smiled weakly. “That sucks. Listen—I wanted to ask if I could take next Friday off.”
That got his attention.
Terry finally turned, arms crossed. “You? Taking a day off? What’s the occasion? A sudden illness you’re planning in advance?”
She laughed. “No, just... something important. I’ll make up the hours. I can open the next few mornings if you need.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Sam, people ask for you. You’re fast, you don’t screw up orders, and you know how to make cranky customers smile without spitting in their food. You know how rare that is?”
Sam tilted her head. “Flattering me won’t make me change my mind.”
“You sure it can’t wait?”
She thought of Liam’s message again, the precise time and address typed out like it meant something. Like he meant for her to be there.
“No. It can’t.”
Terry let out a long, exaggerated sigh like she’d just asked him to donate a kidney. “Fine. But I’m writing this down in red ink. That’s the color I use for people who owe me favors.”
“Thanks, Terry.” She grinned. “I’ll bring you back something cool from the gallery.”
“Like art?”
“Like a pretentious brochure.”
He waved her off and grumbled something about artists taking all the good waitresses.
The week passed slower than molasses in December. Sam tried not to let herself overthink it—but of course, she did.
Every time she unlocked her phone, she hoped for a message from Liam. Even just a quick “Hey.” But nothing came.
On Wednesday, she broke down and texted him: “Excited to see your work. Hope the prep’s going well.”
No reply.
She waited until Thursday night before deleting the message thread entirely. Out of sight, out of mind—right?
Wrong.
Everywhere she turned, something reminded her of him. A customer with paint smudged on their hands. A playlist with the same song that was playing in his car that night. Even the smell of coffee grounds on her hands after work made her think of the way his jacket smelled—warm and clean with a hint of turpentine and rain.
By the time Friday arrived, her nerves were so wound up she nearly called it off altogether.
But she didn’t.
She dressed simply—just enough to feel confident, not too much to look like she was trying. A black dress, soft curls falling over her shoulders, and a touch of lip gloss she almost wiped off twice before convincing herself to leave it.
The Uber dropped her off in front of the Rosewood Gallery, a modern-looking building with glass panels and soft golden light pouring out from the inside. Sam stood on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to slow her breath.
It’s just an art show, she told herself. You’re here for the paintings. Not for him.
Except she knew that was a lie.
She stepped inside, greeted instantly by the quiet hush of art lovers, the scent of wine and something faintly floral in the air. The walls were covered in pieces—abstracts, portraits, landscapes—and she wandered through them slowly, her eyes scanning the room.
No Liam.
She circled the main gallery once, then again, sipping from the glass of sparkling water someone handed her at the door. Maybe he was in the back. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe—
“Sam?”
The voice came from behind her—soft but certain. Familiar.
She turned, and for a moment, her breath hitched so hard it felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.
Liam stood just a few feet away, dressed in a perfectly tailored black button-down, the sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, and a pair of dark jeans that somehow made him look both effortlessly cool and unfairly attractive. His raven black hair looked slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times, and his eyes lit up when they landed on her. There was a calm kind of fire behind them—like he’d been searching the room for her and finally found what he was looking for.
He looked like someone who belonged in a gallery—not just because he was an artist, but because he somehow fit. Like one of the paintings had stepped off the wall and into the room.
And he was looking at her like she was the one on display.
“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 
“You came.”
Sam nodded, suddenly aware of how warm her cheeks were. “I said I would.”
“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, taking a slow step toward her. “You didn’t answer after I sent the time.”
She tilted her head. “I texted you.”
Liam blinked. “You did?”
“Wednesday night.”
A crease formed between his brows, then quickly disappeared. “I never saw it. I—I must’ve missed it. This week’s been a mess.” He glanced around the room and then back at her, eyes softening. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Sam tried to keep her expression calm, even as her heart tripped over itself. “I almost didn’t come.”
His jaw tensed just a little. “Why?”
She shrugged, not trusting herself to give the real answer. “Busy week. Hard to get time off.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” His voice dropped slightly, more intimate now. “You look...”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “What?”
His smile returned, slow and crooked. “Beautiful.”
There was a pause—small, breathy, and electric. And then he gestured toward the nearest wall. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
Liam led her toward a painting tucked into a quieter corner of the gallery. The crowd thinned out there, and the lighting was warmer—more intimate somehow, like it was meant to be a place for breathing, for slowing down.
The piece in front of them wasn’t the largest in the room, but it stopped Sam in her tracks. At first glance, it was abstract—brushstrokes of deep, moody blues and warm ochres that spiraled inward, fading into soft smudges of white. But the more she looked, the more it felt like movement. Like something unfolding. Like a storm that had already passed, leaving behind a kind of fragile stillness.
She didn’t know why, but it made her throat tighten.
Liam stood beside her, silent at first. Then he spoke, quietly. “I painted this the day after I met you at the bookstore.”
Sam turned to him, surprised. “Seriously?”
He nodded, eyes still lingering on the painting. “Yeah. I hadn’t picked up a brush in weeks. Everything I made felt flat, like I was just filling space. But after that day at the bookstore... after we talked and had coffee—I don’t know, I went home that night and just started painting. I couldn’t stop.”
She looked back at the canvas, her stomach fluttering. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s messy,” he said, almost laughing at himself. “And probably too much. But it felt real.”
Sam tilted her head. “What does it mean?”
He hesitated, then glanced at her, his voice softer now. “It’s about that moment when something changes in you—quietly, almost without warning. Like you’re walking through your life thinking you know the story, and then someone enters the room and everything shifts. They don’t even mean to do it… but suddenly, the light’s different. The colors are brighter. And it’s terrifying, because you didn’t ask for it. But it’s also the first time you feel really awake.”
Her heart thudded. “That’s what I made you feel?”
Liam didn’t blink. “Yeah. You made me want to try again.”
For a moment, Sam didn’t know what to say. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing between them, the quiet truth of it all hanging in the air.
“I didn’t know I did all that,” she said, her voice small.
“You didn’t have to,” he replied. “You just showed up. Sometimes that’s everything.”
She turned to face him, and there was a look in his eyes—soft, sincere, a little raw. And in that second, any leftover doubt she’d carried with her started to loosen its grip. She turned back to the canvas, smiling.
Sam barely had time to process what Liam had said before a voice cut through the quiet.
“Babe.”
She turned to see a tall woman striding toward them, heels sharp against the gallery floor. She was stunning—curvy in a way that made every movement look deliberate, confident. Her long brunette hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her red dress hugged her figure like it was tailored for a spotlight. She wore bold lipstick and a smile that hinted she already knew how this scene would play out.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she said, her eyes sliding from Liam to the painting, then briefly to Sam. “Always hiding your best work in the corners—for the best eyes.”
She moved beside Liam with ease and slipped her arm through his, her touch so casual it could only come from history. Familiarity.
Liam tensed at her side. Sam felt it—but he didn’t pull away. Not immediately.
Sam stood frozen. Her chest tightened, thoughts spiraling. *Babe?*
She stared at Liam, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He didn’t.
And just like that, the warmth between them vanished—leaving behind something colder.