The Kiss That Crossed the Line

Iris

The wheels of my suitcase scraped against cobblestone as I approached the familiar townhouse.

Pasadena's afternoon sun was brutal, casting shadows through palm fronds. Six years, and this place looked unchanged—same terra-cotta roof, same ivy-covered walls, even that wild lavender pot by the door.

But I had changed.

'Had he changed too?'

Elena opened the door before I could ring. Silver-gray hair in a French twist, turquoise necklace—more elegant than I remembered.

"Iris! Darling, you've grown even more beautiful." Her lavender perfume hit me, transporting me back to fifteen. "How was your gap year?"

That scent always took me back to the beginning.

When Mom died and Dad was drowning in grief, Elena appeared like some kind of guardian angel—patient, warm, everything we needed. She brought Sebastian with her, this brooding seventeen-year-old artist who barely spoke to anyone.

Dad was so lost in his sculptures then, trying to carve away his pain. Elena held us all together.

Sebastian and I were supposed to be siblings, but it never felt that way. Maybe because we were too close in age, or maybe because of the way he'd look at me when he thought no one was watching.

For three years, we lived in this strange, beautiful bubble—him teaching me about art, me reading him my terrible teenage poetry.

Then I turned eighteen and everything got complicated. So I ran. College first, then a gap year traveling, anything to put distance between us and whatever this was.

Six years of pretending I could forget him.

I followed Elena into the art-filled living room. Same smell—oil paint, coffee, incense.

"Not bad. Where's Sebastian?"

Her expression shifted. "Upstairs in his studio. He's... reclusive now. Changed a lot, Iris."

'Reclusive?' The Sebastian who'd stay up with me until dawn when I couldn't sleep?

Miles Davis drifted from upstairs—"Kind of Blue." His painting music.

"Does he know I'm back?"

"Of course. I think he's dealing with important pieces. You know artists need space."

Elena helped me drag my suitcase to the stairway. "Your room is just as you left it. I imagine you'll need the WiFi password?"

"Yes, thanks."

"WildHeartStudio, all caps." She hesitated. "Or you could ask Sebastian upstairs, he should remember."

I nodded, understanding this was her way of creating an excuse for contact. Elena had always been clever.

At six in the evening, I finally worked up the courage to climb those stairs. Each step reminded me of the nervousness I felt the first time I walked up them at fifteen. Back then I had just lost my mom, the whole world was gray, until I met Sebastian.

His studio door was half-open, heavy oil paint fumes wafting out. I knocked on the doorframe.

"Sebastian? I need the WiFi password."

No answer, but the music stopped.

I pushed the door open and froze.

Sebastian stood with his back to me at an easel, shirtless, wearing only paint-splattered jeans. His back was broader than I remembered, muscles defined, shoulder blades shifting slightly as his arm moved. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, casting golden shadows across his skin.

Hearing footsteps, he spun around, and our eyes met.

Six years.

It was still that face—deep blue eyes, sharp nose, defined jawline. But there was something more now—maybe the stubble, maybe that look in his eyes I couldn't read.

The paintbrush in his hand was still dripping deep red paint.

"Shit." He cursed under his breath, quickly setting down the brush and grabbing a white shirt from a nearby chair. But he moved too quickly, the sleeves tangled, and he couldn't get it on.

"Your studio's a mess, Sebastian."

I tried to keep my voice light, but my heart was pounding like it might explode.

The studio was indeed a disaster—canvases, palettes, paint tubes everywhere, the floor splattered with every color imaginable. But there was a strange order within this chaos, like his thought process.

He finally got the shirt on but didn't button it. "Need something? I'm working."

His voice was deeper than I remembered, but cold as ice.

"WiFi password. Elena said you'd know."

"WildHeartStudio." He turned back to face the easel, deliberately avoiding my gaze. "Door's behind you."

I should have left. Should have said thanks and walked away. But my eyes couldn't help scanning the studio. New works hung on the walls, colors intense and full of tension, with a kind of suppressed beauty. A stack of well-worn sketchbooks sat in the corner.

"Still into Miles Davis?"

He finally turned to look at me, surprise flickering in his eyes. "You remember?"

"I remember a lot of things."

We stared at each other for several seconds, the air thick with unnameable tension. Then he looked away, turning back to the canvas.

"I need to work."

"Of course." I turned toward the door. "See you at dinner."

"I don't come down for dinner."

I stopped. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

Simple, blunt answer, very much his style. But I heard something else underneath—maybe exhaustion, maybe pain.

"Alright." I said. "Then I won't disturb you and your... expressionism."

I closed the door and leaned against the hallway wall, my heart still racing. Those few minutes felt like a century.

'Has he really changed this much? Or... does he just not want to see me?'

At eleven PM, after helping Elena clean up, I snuck upstairs. Sebastian's studio door was locked, but I remembered he forgot the side door—the one to the balcony.

It was ajar.

I tiptoed inside, moonlight streaming through the skylight. Paint scent mixed with coffee bitterness.

Using my phone's flashlight, I searched for the router. My beam hit a curtained area behind the wall.

Curiosity made me lift the fabric corner.

My breathing stopped.

The entire wall was covered with photographs—me. Age fifteen to now, every season, every expression. Some I knew about, others I didn't—me reading in gardens, making coffee, watching sunsets.

Next to each photo was a corresponding sketch. Charcoal, pencil, soft and precise. Complete portraits, details—my eyes, hands, smile.

Most shocking was the huge central oil painting.

Me in today's outfit—white T-shirt, jeans, canvas shoes. Incredibly detailed, even my tiny coffee stain. The painted me smiled with tenderness I hadn't realized I possessed.

My hands shook, flashlight wavering.

Papers scattered beside the easel. I picked one up, dense with numbers and writing. At the top in thick black marker:

"Day 2,187 without her"

Other papers showed Day 2,186, Day 2,185... back to Day 1.

He was counting. Every single day we'd been apart.

On the newest paper, under today's date: "Day 0 - She's home."

My legs went weak. Six years of counting, painting, missing, waiting.

And I thought he'd forgotten.

I crept out, returned to my room. But sleep wouldn't come. Those paintings, numbers, that unreadable look in his eyes.

Now I understood.

Not coldness. Fear.

'He's scared too. Scared of getting close again, scared of losing me again.'

I lay staring at the ceiling.

Sebastian Thorne, my stepbrother, that outwardly cold but deeply passionate artist, had been waiting six years for me to come home.

And I just had.