Foundations
The art studio smelled like old wood and turpentine, and something faintly floral - like someone had opened a window too late to chase the scent of summer.
Meg lingered in the doorway longer than she meant to, clutching the folded flyer Esme had given her like it was a hall pass she didn't quite believe in. Her boots stuck slightly to the scuffed floor as she stepped inside.
It was warm, cramped with easels and half-finished canvases. A long skylight ran overhead, casting watery gold light over everything in the room. The walls were hung with student work - some terrible, some unexpectedly beautiful.
The air buzzed with soft chatter and the scratch of charcoal against paper.
She didn't belong here. Not really. But no one looked at her twice.
A middle-aged woman with paint-stained jeans and a crown of curls welcomed her in with a kind smile and a wave toward the back. "Find a spot, love. We're just warming up."
Meg did.
She slid onto the worn stool at an empty easel. A clean sheet of paper was already clipped in place. A tray of charcoal sat between her and the petite blonde beside her, who offered a bright open smile but didn't try and make conversation. Meg was grateful.
She stared at the page for a long moment, her hand hovering.
Then she picked up the charcoal.
Her first line was wrong - too hard, too nervous. She smudged it out with the heel of her hand, leaving a grey smear on the page. And on her skin.
She tried again.
And again.
Each line came easier. Each mistake less important. The world outside the studio - the pressure, the noise, the ache she carried like a second spine - faded.
She stopped thinking.
Stopped planning.
Just let the marks spill out.
Just moved.
Something surged through her - not quite memory, not quite instinct. Something older. Something real. She didn't know what she was drawing, didn't care if it was good. She just… was.
Her fingers darkened with charcoal dust. Her wrist began to ache. Her breathing slowed.
When the teacher finally called time, Meg blinked like someone waking up.
The city was cooler by the time Meg stepped back onto the street.
She tugged her jacket tighter and fell into step with the crowd, her sketchbook under one arm. It felt heavier than it should. Like it had weight. Like it meant something. Something solid blooming in her chest
Not hope exactly.
But close.
She didn't take the subway. She walked.
Every so often, she looked down at the charcoal smudges on her fingers, pressed her thumb against them as if to be sure they were real.
She hadn't told Esme she was going.
She hadn't told Flynn anything at all.
For the first time in a while, it felt like she had something just for her. Not borrowed. Not tangled in someone else's expectations.
Just hers.
The streetlights blurred a little in her vision - maybe from the wind, maybe from something else. She wiped at her face quickly, as if the night might catch her crying and tell someone.
The walk back to the apartment felt longer than usual. She didn't mind.
The familiar creak of the front door, the peeling number above it, the comfort of someplace known. All of it waited quietly.
She climbed the stairs slowly. Paused beside the fire escape window and glanced out on reflex.
Empty.
No Flynn.
And for once, she was grateful.
Not because she didn't want to see him - but because she couldn't explain this. Not yet. Not when it still felt like something half-formed, too new to name.
Inside, Esme wasn't home. Probably working late; saving the world one byline at a time.
Meg toed off her boots, dropped her bag, and stood in the middle of their small, cluttered living room, not moving.
Her sketchbook was still under her arm. She ran a thumb along the edge.
Then, on impulse, she crossed to the table, cleared away Esme's old coffee cups, and opened the book flat.
She turned to the page she like best and propped it up against the lamp.
Stepped back.
Looked at it.
A breath left her.
Maybe it wasn't perfect. But it was hers.
And right now, that felt like something.
Author's Note: I wasn't planning on updating quite this regularly, but was having too much fun prepping these chapters into their final-final-final versions to keep them in draft.
I also hadn't originally meant to have art as Meg's 'thing' but once it landed, it just sort of stuck. Her eye-roll is too perfect to be anything other than an art snob. Plus it gave me so many opportunities for white-collar cons, which I couldn't pass it up (no spoilers!)
Again, thank you for reading if you've made it this far. I'll be back soon with the next chapter - Flynn's back, being the perfect partner in crime he always is.
CB