Part 1: The New Series
Charlotte stared at the painting.
It showed two silhouettes sitting on steps, a city stretching behind them, champagne bottle between them. The figures were impressionistic, almost abstract, but there was something achingly intimate about the composition. The way they leaned toward each other without touching. The space between them that felt both vast and insignificant.
The title, written in small letters at the bottom: "Learning to Close Distance"
"That's..." Charlotte's voice caught. "That's us. On the gallery steps."
"Not exactly. I mean, it's inspired by that night, but—"
"Turn around the others."
Mateo did.
The second painting: two people in a café, the morning light catching on coffee cups. You couldn't see their faces, but you could feel the nervousness, the anticipation.
Title: "First Morning"
The third: a woman standing alone in an empty gallery, looking at art. Something about her posture—vulnerability mixed with strength—made Charlotte's chest hurt.
Title: "She Sees Herself"
The fourth: two people painting together, their brushstrokes merging on a single canvas, neither trying to control the other's hand.
Title: "Learning to Share Space"
There were six more. All variations on the same theme: two people learning how to be together. Learning to be vulnerable. Learning that intimacy meant seeing and being seen.
Charlotte stood very still.
"Say something," Mateo said quietly.
"You're painting me again."
"I'm painting us. It's different—"
"Is it?" Charlotte turned to face him. "Three years ago you painted me as this perfect fantasy. Now you're painting us as this... what? Your artistic journey of relationship growth?"
Mateo's face flushed. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? Mateo, we've been seeing each other for three days. Three days. And you already have nine paintings about it."
"I paint what I feel. That's what artists do."
"No, what artists do is observe the world. What you're doing is—" Charlotte stopped, trying to find the right words. "It's like you're turning us into content. Into your subject."
"Henri said real art comes from real emotion."
"Real emotion about real life. Not real emotion about someone you barely know yet."
The words hung in the air between them.
Mateo took a step back. "I barely know you?"
"We had breakfast yesterday. Before that, we hadn't seen each other in three years. And yes, we kissed, and yes, there's something here, but Mateo..." Charlotte gestured at the canvases. "This feels like you're writing the story before we've lived it."
"I'm not writing anything. I'm just—" He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. "I'm processing. This is how I process."
"By making me your muse again."
"You're not my muse. That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
Mateo was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower. "Three years ago, I painted you as this goddess. This perfect, untouchable thing. And Henri called me out. He said I was projecting, not seeing."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to paint what's actually happening. The real feelings. The uncertainty. The scary parts of letting someone in." He met her eyes. "But maybe you're right. Maybe I'm still doing the same thing, just differently."
Charlotte softened slightly. "I don't want to be on your canvas before I've figured out if I want to be in your life."
"You think I'm rushing."
"I think we're both rushing. And maybe that's okay for now. But Mateo..." She looked at the paintings again. "When you paint me—even like this, abstractly—it changes how you see me. It turns me into something you're creating instead of someone you're getting to know."
Part 2: The Conversation
Mateo sat down on the floor, back against the wall. After a moment, Charlotte joined him.
"I don't know how to not do this," he said quietly. "Painting is how I understand things. If I don't paint it, I don't know what I feel."
"I get that. But what if..." Charlotte thought about how to phrase this. "What if you painted other things for a while? Gave us some space to just be, without turning it into art?"
"I tried that in Paris. After Henri died. I couldn't paint anything for weeks. It felt like drowning."
"I'm not saying don't paint. I'm saying... maybe don't paint us. Not yet. Not while we're still figuring out what this is."
Mateo looked at her. "Does it bother you? That I paint you?"
"It bothers me that I might become your subject before I become your—" She stopped. What were they to each other? Not quite girlfriend and boyfriend. Not quite just friends.
"Before you become my what?" Mateo asked gently.
"I don't know. Partner? Person?" Charlotte laughed awkwardly. "God, I don't even know what to call this."
"How about we just call it 'figuring it out'?"
"That works."
They sat in silence, shoulders touching.
"I'll cover them up," Mateo said finally. "The paintings. They're not for sale anyway. They're just... practice."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to. You're right. I'm doing the same thing I did before, just with better technique." He smiled ruefully. "Henri would be disappointed."
"Henri would probably tell you that you're an idiot but he loves you anyway."
"Sounds about right."
Charlotte leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm not saying you did anything wrong. I just... I need to know that when you look at me, you're seeing Charlotte. Not inspiration. Not a subject. Just me."
"I am seeing you. That's what scares me."
She lifted her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean three years ago, I saw what I wanted to see. A fantasy. An escape. And it wasn't real, and it hurt both of us." He touched her face gently. "Now when I look at you, I see someone brave and messy and trying to figure out who she is. Someone real. And that's scarier than any fantasy because—"
"Because real people can hurt you."
"Yeah."
Charlotte understood. She felt the same way. Being seen—really seen—was terrifying.
"So what do we do?" she asked.
"I guess we just... try. Keep showing up. Keep being honest even when it's uncomfortable."
"Like right now?"
"Exactly like right now."
Charlotte took a breath. "Okay. Honest moment: when I walked in and saw those paintings, part of me wanted to run. Because it felt like you were creating a version of us in your head, and I was scared I couldn't live up to it."
Mateo absorbed this. "And now?"
"Now I think maybe you're as scared as I am. And that makes it feel less like I'm being studied and more like we're both just... trying."
"I am terrified," Mateo admitted. "I keep waiting for you to realize this is ridiculous. That you're Charlotte Morgan and I'm guy who can't even afford a real bed."
"I'm not Charlotte Morgan anymore. I'm just Charlotte. Who lives in Culver City and has a leaky sink and three books."
"Still more books than I have."
She laughed, and the tension broke a little.