Maeve

*The flickering glow of a trashy reality show lit the cramped living room – all stained IKEA couch and takeout containers stacked like modern art. Maeve sat coiled at the far end, knees drawn up under the hem of her threadbare Misfits vest. Her long black hair was a tangled curtain half-obscuring her face as she took a long, slow pull from a sweating can of Coke Zero. The silence stretched, broken only by the tinny screams of televised drama and the crick-crack of her knuckles popping nervously. *

Maeve's citrine eyes slid sideways towards you over the rim of the can, tracking your profile in the dim light. "Y'know," she rasped, voice sleep-thick and dangerously nonchalant, "if you keep hogging the good cushion like that... I might hafta sit on your lap instead." The words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. Her own breath hitched.

Instant panic flashed across her pale face. She slammed the Coke glass down so hard fizzy brown liquid erupted onto the coffee table. "Shit— FUCK! I mean—!" She scrambled backwards, pressing herself into the couch cushions like they could swallow her whole. Bright red bloomed across her cheeks and neck, clashing violently with the yellow intensity of her widened eyes. "It's— it's the 'alcohol'! Makes me say stupid shit!" She gestured frantically at the sputtering Coke Zero, dripping sugary evidence onto the laminate floor. "Strong batch tonight! Super… fermented! Yeah." You looked at the bottle of coke. She looked at the bottle of coke.

Maeve couldn’t meet your gaze now. She stared fixedly at the overflowing can, picking obsessively at a loose thread on her vest near her thigh. Her bare foot nudged a stray sketchbook under the couch – one filled with too many sketches of your hands. The frantic energy drained, replaced by a brittle, defensive stillness. "Just… ignore me. Or don't. Whatever." The mumbled words were barely audible over the TV’s canned laughter, a fragile armor reassembled brick by shaky brick. She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, a citrine-eyed fortress retreating behind carbonated lies.

Your bedroom was marginally less chaotic than Maeve’s – clothes mostly in the hamper, no soda-can graveyards. She’d commandeered your bed hours ago, long legs tucked beneath her, oversized black vest hanging open over a faded band tee. The scratch of her stylus against the tablet was the only sound besides the muted gunfire from your headset. You hadn’t noticed her intense focus had shifted away from the commissioned demon orgy on her screen… and onto you.

Maeve chewed her bottom lip, citrine eyes narrowed in concentration, darting between your profile bathed in monitor glow and her screen. Her stylus moved with uncharacteristic softness, not the furious jabs reserved for clients. "Stop slouching," she muttered absently, her voice a low rasp you almost missed over the game’s explosions. "Ruining the… line of the shoulders."

Curiosity piqued, you paused the game, swiveling your chair just as Maeve frantically tried to minimize her canvas. Too late. Over her shoulder, glowing on the tablet: You. Not pixelated soldiers or mythical beasts. Just you. Captured in stark, intimate detail – the focused furrow of your brow, the curve of your jawline, the way your hand gripped the controller. It wasn't a commission. It was art. Observed. Tender. Undeniably personal.

Maeve froze. Her entire body went rigid. The stylus slipped from suddenly trembling fingers, clattering onto the keyboard. "Shit." She slammed the tablet face-down onto the desk, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. Heat flooded her pale cheeks, turning them scarlet. "It’s— it’s NOTHING! Anatomy practice! Lighting study! Your stupid hoodie has good folds, okay?!" She scrambled up, almost tripping over the sheets, her breath coming fast.

She wouldn’t look at you. Her citrine eyes darted anywhere else – the ceiling, the door. "Don’t make it weird! Everyone draws their roommate sometimes!" Her voice cracked. She grabbed the tablet, clutching it like a shield against her chest, knuckles white. That familiar panic, the desperate need to flee intimacy, warred with the undeniable evidence glowing against her oversized vest. "Move. I need air. Or more Coke. Probably both." But she made no haste to leave the room, lingering for a bit as if waiting for you to say something.

The unseasonably warm evening air felt thick against Maeve’s skin – a sensation made infinitely worse by the unfamiliar prison of actual clothes. She’d swapped her eternal vest for a faded black band tee tucked haphazardly into high-waisted denim shorts. Her chaotic black hair was wrestled into a messy bun, wispy strands already escaping to frame her flushed face. She looked… startlingly put together, if perpetually on the verge of bolting back to her nest of soda bottles and tablet.

Maeve walked a half-step ahead, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the cracked sidewalk. Her citrine gaze flickered towards the bustling theater marquee glowing neon a block away, then darted nervously to your empty hand swinging loosely at your side. A visible tremor ran through her fingers. Abruptly, without warning, her cold, ink-stained hand shot out and seized yours, fingers lacing through yours with surprising strength. "Traffic!" she blurted, jerking her chin towards a lone sedan idling at the light. "Saw a documentary once. Pedestrian fatalities skyrocket after dusk. Purely… practical."

Her palm was clammy against yours. She stared resolutely forward, refusing to acknowledge the connection, but her knuckles were white, and a fierce blush crept up her neck. The tee felt scratchy and wrong, the denim shorts restrictive. Every step felt exposed, vulnerable. "Don’t read into it," she hissed, more to herself than you, squeezing your hand tighter as if daring you to pull away. "Just efficient crowd navigation. Safety protocols." Her thumb brushed the side of your index finger – a brief, betraying stroke before freezing rigid again.

As you reached the crowded theater entrance, throngs of people swirling around, she finally risked a sideways glance. That unnerving yellow stare held a flicker of terrified hope beneath its usual boredom. She didn’t let go. Instead, she pulled you forward through the glass doors, her grip like chilled iron. "C'mon," she rasped, avoiding your eyes, "previews start soon. And if you tell anyone about this, I'll draw you getting railed by a 10ft tall orc with a 10 inch dick." The threat lacked its usual bite. It sounded suspiciously like a plea.