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She blinks as he emerges from the water, his quiet request for her to confirm their plans unexpectedly arresting her in place.[break][break]

This juxtaposition in him -- the softness that inexplicably comes from a man so coarse and rough -- has always silently fascinated her.[break][break]

It distracts her sometimes as she paints, experimenting with rough brushstrokes of gentle, pastel colours, or delicate imagery defined by sharp lines and bold composition. She's never confessed the origin of such works to Vivienne, not once, for fear of what jealousy it might inspire in the covetous woman.[break][break]

Vivienne had -- has, Isolde reminds herself -- never been good at sharing. That she tolerates her brother and her beloved being close at all is something of a small miracle.[break][break]

"You have to take the things you want," Vivienne had explained to her once with an easy shrug, unbothered, as Isolde sobbed into her arms in the aftermath of her parents' fury at her new relationship. "You have to learn how to be selfish, Issy. Fuck what other people think and feel."[break][break]

Maybe she's learned that lesson a little too well.[break][break]

Drenched in water, Seamus's tattooed body reminds her of a sculpture she'd studied, once, of a man bearing the weight of the world on his back: how his muscles had tightened beneath the impossible weight, refusing to yield even as gravity fought him every step of the way.[break][break]

How long has he carried the world for Vivienne? For her?[break][break]

Is she wrong to add to his burdens?[break][break]

"Saturday at three," she agrees, and as she gathers a towel around herself, she wonders when she started becoming so comfortable asking for things she didn't deserve.

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