Chapter Sixty

Halfway through his painting, Chris caught himself smiling. The canvas wasn’t finished yet—the figure of a man had barely taken shape, his arms only beginning to stretch toward the light.

Chris stood, stretching his stiff arms, and tugged off his apron, stained with a mess of colors. He hung it on the hook by the wall and rubbed his forehead. Thirst burned in his throat. A glance at the clock made him frown—it was already past seven.

He had been working for hours. With a slow nod, Chris left the studio.

At the refrigerator, he reached for a bottle of water when a knock echoed through the apartment.

His brows furrowed. The knock came again, sharper. his chest tightened. At this hour, it could only have been Alex once—but the memory stung. The man he once trusted had been his enemy all along.

Chris shook his head, trying to shove Alex out of his thoughts. He walked to the door.

Slowly, he pulled it open and peeked outside.

Isa stood there, smiling wide, a white box raised to his face. Her eyes sparkled as they met his.

“Happy birthday!”

Chris blinked, frozen in place.

Birthday?His mind reeled. He glanced at the date, his jaw dropping. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even thought about his birthday—let alone celebrated one. Seven years, maybe more. No one had ever reminded him.

A bittersweet smile curved across his lips as he stared at Isa’s glowing face, her hands still holding the cake out to him.

She remembered?Heat rose in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t alone.

Chris gently took the box and stepped aside to let her in.

“Seriously…” he turned the cake in his hands, his eyes bright with emotion. “I couldn’t even remember my own birthday anymore.”

“And I just reminded you,” Isa teased, her smile playful.

A soft laugh slipped out of Chris. He placed the cake on the table and nodded. “Thank you.”

Then his gaze landed on the guitar bag slung over her shoulder. His brows lifted as he looked back at her.

“I’ve never seen you carry that before.”

For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked at her. Her brown hair spilled over her shoulders, a few strands falling across her face. Baggy jeans, an oversized shirt, white sneakers. Something about her felt different tonight.

Chris chuckled. “You look like a rock star.” And suddenly, he felt they were close enough for him to glimpse this side of her.

Isa slid the guitar bag off and sat on the couch, resting the instrument on her lap.

“I want to start music training again,” Her fingers brushed over the case, determination gleaming in her eyes. “After the international exhibition, I’ll chase my dream for real this time. I won’t let anything stop me anymore.”

Chris stared at her, and for a moment it was as if he was back in high school—only now she was stronger, braver, unafraid. The same Isa, but changed.

“You’ve grown so much,” he said softly. Their eyes met. “You’ve been through a lot, but you’ve turned it into strength.”

He chuckled and reached out to ruffle her hair. “Good girl.”

Isa’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not a child!”

Chris laughed and straightened, hands slipping into his pockets. “Alright, not a child. How about some wine?”

He went to grab a bottle and two glasses, but when he returned, he froze at the doorway.

Isa was humming, her fingers lightly brushing the guitar strings. Her hair fell over her face, hiding her profile. The soft melody filled the cold, empty room, weaving warmth into the silence.

Chris’s chest tightened. It was déjà vu—the same feeling he’d had the first time he saw her in the woods, playing her guitar with her hair falling across her face.

The music stopped abruptly. Isa looked up, smiling—not with panic this time, but with ease.

Chris smiled back and walked over, setting the glasses down. “That was beautiful.” He sat beside her, tapping the wine bottle against the table. “And now I suddenly want to hear your voice again.”

Her eyes lit up, head tilting. “Really?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and nodded.

Her smile widened, and something in him stirred at the sight.

Isa adjusted her guitar and cleared her throat. “I’ll sing you something from Ashley Kutcher.”

Chris frowned, trying to recall the name. It had been years since he’d even listened to music. His mouth parted slightly in surprise.

Then the strings hummed, and Isa’s voice rose—gentle, airy, like wind beneath blossoming branches. Her lyrics filled the room, each word carrying raw emotion. Her gaze locked on his, searching him.

“So how do I know your skin?

How do I know your touch?

But you never let me in,

you never open up,

I don’t know what this is, Is it me? Is it you? Is it us?

But I know I could pick him right out of a line-up,

southern looking boy from carolina with blue eyes,

But I don’t know what’s behind’em,

It’s a fine line, And I’m walkig on the wire.

I wish I could read him, I’ve been tyna,

Make sense of what’s been going on inside his sweet mind

But I don’t know what he’s hidding. He’s a good guy, And a damn good lair.”

A small, low laugh escaped Chris’ lips at her last word. He kept his eyes on her as she continued singing, her gaze locked with his as though she were truly trying to decipher what was going on in his head.

A pressure pressed against his ribs. Memories hit him—her first day at his office, the way he had pretended not to know her, the pain in her eyes when he shut her out. He remembered pushing her away, convincing himself it was safer that way. He had chosen distance. Chosen silence. Chosen death over life. Even now, though she was safe with him, he still couldn’t bring himself to fully let her in. He kept part of himself hidden, clinging to a wall of fear and uncertainty that he didn’t yet know how to tear down.

Isa’s voice lingered on the last line, then faded. Chris hadn’t even noticed when she reached for his hand.

He looked down at her fingers laced with his.

Isa smiled softly. “I know you still need time to heal,” she whispered. She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheeks. “And I’ll wait patiently for you. Until you let me in.”

Chris blinked hard as his eyes stung. Her touch was warm, achingly familiar—like home. A sudden urge rose within him to shed the part of himself that kept holding him back. His jaw clenched as the weight in his chest ached to break free.

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