Pulse between us

Cracked

Taliah’s POV

By the time I pull myself together, the sound of Noah’s footsteps has already faded down the hall.

I stand there for a few seconds, just breathing — shallow, uneven breaths — like my body’s trying to catch up to what my heart is doing.

The room feels heavier now.

His file still lies on the table, next to the portrait I should have covered, destroyed, something.

I grab a rag and start wiping my hands, but the paint smears instead, streaking color across my skin — chestnut, gold, the shades of everything I was trying not to feel.

Then I hear a car horn outside.

Liam.

I wipe my face once more and open the door before he can knock.

He’s standing there with that boyish smile that usually melts me. But tonight, something in me is too tired to melt.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning slightly. “You look… distracted.”

“I was painting,” I say, forcing a smile. “Lost track of time.”

His eyes flick past me, scanning the room out of habit. “Someone came by?”

I hesitate for half a second too long. “Noah. He—uh—brought some reports I forgot at work.”

Liam raises a brow. “The senior radiographer himself? That’s… considerate.”

There’s something in his tone — not anger, exactly. Just quiet curiosity that feels like a test I don’t want to take.

“He was just doing his job,” I reply, a little too quickly.

Liam nods, though his gaze lingers on the painting behind me. The one that looks nothing like “just art.”

“You’ve been painting again,” he says softly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, even though I can’t remember when painting started to feel like a confession.

He smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got color on your cheek.”

When his thumb brushes it away, I flinch before I can stop myself.

And that — that single, tiny movement — changes everything.

He notices. Of course he does.

His hand falls back to his side. “You’ve been working too much,” he says after a pause. “Maybe we should get away for the weekend.”

“Maybe,” I answer, voice barely above a whisper.

He studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

When he’s gone, I close the door and rest my forehead against the wood, exhaling a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for years.

The paint water is still on the table, the brush still soaking.

The portrait stares back at me — unfinished, too real, too raw.

And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I’ve built a life out of running from the wrong kind of love… or the right one that hurt too much to stay.