Zephany's face grew warm, unreasonably so. The mental image was too vivid. It felt almost real. As if it had happened. As if it could happen.
She shook her head, cheeks burning now. Her fingers had stilled on the keyboard, and she realized she hadn't typed a single word since sitting down. Not one.
Another image.
This time he was painting.
The light from their living room window spilling over his shoulder as he sat by the easel, brush in hand, completely absorbed in his work. Except instead of canvas, it was her. Her face. Her features, rendered stroke by stroke with quiet affection.
What is wrong with me?
She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, practically reaching her ears now.
She turned sharply, eyes narrowing, and glared at Pia who sat just a few feet away at her own desk, still typing away like she hadn't just emotionally derailed her best friend.
Pia must have felt the stare. She looked up, eyes wide in mock innocence. "What?"
