Part 1: Evening
Mateo's POV — 9:03 PM
Mateo stood in his studio, looking around with fresh eyes.
It was a disaster. Canvases everywhere, paint tubes scattered, his futon covered in unfolded laundry.
Charlotte was coming tomorrow.
He spent two hours cleaning—organizing the chaos into slightly neater piles. He did laundry. Swept the floor. Even washed his three dishes.
His phone rang. Sophie.
"Why are you cleaning at 9 PM?"
"Charlotte's coming tomorrow."
"So?"
"So I want her to see I'm a functional adult."
"Are you?"
"I'm working on it."
Sophie laughed. "Mateo, she already kissed you. Twice. She doesn't care if your studio is messy. Show her your work. That's what matters."
After they hung up, Mateo looked at his paintings. The Montmartre series. The new work from LA.
And the ones he'd been afraid to show anyone—the "Learning to Be With Someone" series. Paintings about vulnerability. About two people learning to share space without losing themselves.
Tomorrow, he'd show her everything.
Or at least, he'd try.
Charlotte's POV — 10:15 PM
Charlotte couldn't sleep. She lay in bed, thinking about her mother's call.
"When you chose differently than I did, I was furious. Because you were brave enough to do what I never could."
Her whole life, she'd thought her mother was simply cold. Demanding. Impossible to please.
But maybe she'd just been scared. Scared of watching her daughter take risks she'd been too afraid to take herself.
Charlotte's phone lit up with a notification. She'd set a calendar reminder: "Studio visit with Mateo - 2 PM."
Tomorrow, she'd see where he created. Where he turned paint and canvas into truth.
And maybe, slowly, they'd learn how to build something real together.
Something neither of them had to pretend about.
Part 2 Next Day
Charlotte's POV — 1:53 PM
Charlotte sat in her car outside 2847 Rowena Ave, hands gripping the steering wheel.
She was seven minutes early. Should she wait? Go up now? Text him?
God, why was she this nervous? They'd already kissed. Twice. This was just seeing his studio.
Except it wasn't just his studio. It was where he created. Where he turned whatever was inside him into something visible. That felt intimate in a way that scared her.
She got out of the car before she could overthink it more.
The building was exactly what she'd expected—a 1940s walk-up that had seen better days. Peeling paint, cracked concrete steps, a "No Soliciting" sign half-torn off the door. She climbed the exterior stairs to the second floor, found apartment 4, and knocked twice.
Footsteps. Then the door opened.
Mateo stood there in paint-splattered jeans and an old t-shirt, hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it. He looked nervous and beautiful and real.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"You're early."
"So are you. You're already covered in paint."
He looked down at himself. "I was touching up something. Come in."
Charlotte stepped inside and stopped.
The studio was small—maybe 500 square feet total—but every inch of wall space was covered in art. Canvases leaning against each other, some finished, some in progress. The Murphy bed was folded up, making more room. A tiny kitchenette in one corner. A single window flooding the space with afternoon light.
It smelled like turpentine and coffee and something indefinably Mateo.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, moving a stack of art books off the only chair. "I cleaned, but then I started painting again and—"
"It's perfect," Charlotte said, and meant it.
She walked slowly along the walls, studying the canvases. These were the Montmartre paintings from his Paris show—the old woman with pigeons, the street musician, children playing soccer. Each one captured with such tenderness it made her throat tight.
"These are the ones that sold at Morrison," Mateo said, coming to stand beside her. "I'm doing prints now. The originals went to collectors in San Francisco and London."
"Henri," Charlotte said, reading a small notation in the corner of one painting. "You dedicated them to him."
"He taught me how to see this way. How to paint what's actually there instead of what I want to be there."
Charlotte turned to look at him. "And what did you want to be there before?"
"Magic. Drama. Something bigger than life." He smiled ruefully. "I was painting fantasies, not truth."
"Like the portrait you did of me."
Mateo's expression shifted. "Yeah. Like that."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"Can I see your new work?" Charlotte asked. "The stuff you've been doing since you came back to LA?"
Something flickered across Mateo's face—uncertainty, maybe fear. "It's... different. I don't know if it's good yet."
"I'd still like to see it."
He hesitated, then walked to the far corner where several canvases were turned to face the wall. "Okay. But remember, they're not finished. Some of them might not even work. I'm still figuring out—"
"Mateo. Just show me."
He took a breath, then turned the first canvas around.