Touch Me Like a Secret

Elara had imagined this moment a dozen different ways on the bus ride over—each version calmer, steadier, more competent than she currently felt. The closer she’d gotten to the Calder Restoration Studio, the tighter the nerves had knotted beneath her ribs, pulling her breath into something shallow and traitorous. This wasn’t like her university workshops or the quiet, solitary hours spent restoring thrift-store finds in her apartment. This was real work, under a woman whose reputation hovered somewhere between legendary and intimidating. The building itself seemed to hold its breath. A narrow brick structure tucked between a florist and a shuttered café, it didn’t look like a place where masterpieces were reborn. But the moment Elara stepped through the iron gate and crossed the small courtyard, she felt it—that charged quiet, the reverence that clung to every stone. As if the world softened its volume here so old paintings could speak first. She paused at the studio door, smoothing the wrinkles from her shirt even though no one would notice, and told herself she belonged here. That she’d earned this apprenticeship. That Maris Calder had chosen her for reasons beyond convenience or pity. But doubt still pressed cold fingers against the back of her neck. With one more steadying breath, Elara pushed the door open. The scent of linseed oil and old paper filled the air, a perfume so familiar to Elara Vance it felt more like home than her own apartment. She hovered just inside the studio doorway, her fingers tightening around the strap of her canvas bag. Morning light, thickened by the dust motes dancing in its beams, fell in golden rectangles across the worn floorboards, illuminating islands of controlled chaos. On a wide oak table, the subject of her summer’s work lay exposed under a surgical lamp: a 19th-century landscape, its varnish clouded with age, a secret world waiting to be coaxed back into the light. The silence was a living thing, broken only by the soft, rhythmic whisper of a brush. That silence was shattered by a voice as crisp and clear as the resin Maris used for cleaning. “Don’t just stand there diffusing, Elara. The light’s perfect now.” Maris Calder stood with her back to the door, a silhouette of sharp angles and tailored linen against the bright window. She didn’t turn, her attention wholly consumed by the tiny, deliberate strokes she was applying to the painting’s sky. Even from a distance, Elara could see the tension in her mentor’s shoulders, the absolute focus that made the air around her hum. Maris’s black hair was pulled into a severe knot that seemed to pull the skin taut at her temples, and the single silver bangle on her wrist—a stark, modern line against the antiquity of her work—clicked softly with each movement. Elara moved forward, her soft-soled shoes making no sound. She placed her bag on a secondary stool, her eyes tracing the careful path of Maris’s brush. It was like watching a surgeon operate, each stroke a calculated risk, a revelation. This was the sacred space Maris had built, a kingdom of restoration where time moved backwards, and Elara was still learning the rules of citizenship. She felt a familiar, thrilling mix of awe and inadequacy. Her own hands, smudged with charcoal from early morning sketches, felt clumsy and new. “I’ve mixed a fresh batch of gelatin size for the consolidation,” Maris said, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her gaze was like a physical touch, sweeping over Elara, assessing, cataloging. It missed nothing: the nervous flutter of a pulse in Elara’s throat, the way she instinctively tucked a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear. “The documentation photographer is coming today. I want the preliminary cleaning on the lower quadrant finished before he arrives. I won’t have him flashing his equipment at a half-stripped canvas.” Before Elara could form a reply, the click of the studio’s main door latch echoed through the high-ceilinged room. The sound was an intrusion, a foreign note in their private symphony. Maris went utterly still, her brush hovering mid-air. Elara turned, her heart giving a small, inexplicable leap. A man stood framed in the doorway, the summer morning blazing behind him. He had to duck slightly to clear the lintel, and as he stepped inside, the light shifted to reveal a smile that seemed to warm the entire room. Jalen Rhys carried his camera not as a piece of equipment, but as an extension of himself, the worn leather strap slung casually over a shoulder. His eyes, a warm, perceptive brown, swept the room with an artist’s appreciation before settling on Elara. “Jalen Rhys,” he said, his voice a pleasant, easy baritone that seemed to soften the edges of Maris’s sharp silence. “I’m here for the documentation project.” He nodded at Maris, a gesture of professional respect, but his attention drifted back to Elara, his smile deepening as he took in the smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “Looks like I’m interrupting an artist at work.” Maris turned fully now, placing her brush down with a precision that felt like a warning. “You are precisely on time, Mr. Rhys.” Her voice was cool, a sheet of ice over deep water. “Elara is my apprentice. She will be your primary point of contact for accessing the pieces. Elara, show Mr. Rhys the preparatory sketches and the condition report. I expect you to supervise his setup.” The instruction was clear, a boundary drawn in invisible ink. Elara felt the weight of Maris’s gaze, a possessive pressure that pinned her to the spot even as Jalen’s easy, open expression invited her to step forward. The studio, which had felt like a sanctuary moments before, had suddenly become a stage, and she stood trembling in the spotlight, caught between the brush and the camera, between a world of known rules and the thrilling uncertainty of a new gaze. Elara forced her feet to move, the faint tremor in her legs betraying how deeply the moment had lodged inside her. She approached Jalen, the space between them narrowing until she could see the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, the way the sunlight caught on the fine strands of hair at his temple. He smelled faintly of something warm—cedar, sunlight on fabric, and the crisp edge of camera metal carried through morning air. “Right this way,” she said, surprised her voice didn’t wobble. She gestured toward the long workbench where the case files were stacked with meticulous precision. Jalen followed with an easy gait, neither rushed nor hesitant, as though he’d already learned the rhythm of the room in the few seconds he’d been inside it. Maris stayed by the restoration table, but Elara could feel her presence like a taut wire across her back. Even without looking, she knew Maris’s eyes were following every step she took, every angle of her shoulders, every line of her expression. The studio’s silence had changed—no longer the reverent hush of concentration, but a charged quiet brimming with unspoken questions. Jalen set his camera bag on a stool, his movements unhurried, as though he wanted her to see that he handled everything—people included—with care. “I appreciate you taking the time,” he said softly, pitching his voice just enough to feel like it was meant only for her. “These old places can be a maze.” Elara had the sense he wasn’t talking about the architecture at all. She reached for the binder Maris kept ready for documentation days. Her fingers brushed the glossy cover, her pulse quickening with the sudden awareness that she was no longer simply an apprentice obeying orders. She was a point of interest. A variable. A shift in the studio’s careful balance. Behind them, Maris’s brush clattered into its rinse jar—an accident she never made. Elara flinched at the sharp sound, and Jalen’s gaze flicked past her, assessing, understanding more than any newcomer should. His eyes returned to hers with a flicker of something like reassurance, a silent promise: You’re not imagining it. Maris’s voice followed, cool and even, but edged with something brittle. “Let’s keep things efficient, please. We have deadlines.” Elara nodded automatically, though the words weren’t aimed at her. She handed the binder to Jalen, their fingers almost brushing—almost. The space between them hummed with the possibility of contact, of something new threading its way into her meticulously ordered world. She stepped back, instinctively retreating to the familiar safety of task and protocol, but Jalen didn’t let her vanish into the background. His smile was quiet but unmistakably genuine as he opened the binder. “Show me where to start,” he said. A simple request. A small invitation. But it felt like the beginning of something that had been waiting for her long before he’d ever walked through the studio door. And as Maris turned back to her canvas with a tension sharp enough to slice the air, Elara felt it—the first tremor of a shift she couldn’t undo. Elara swallowed, her throat suddenly parched as she moved from behind the heavy oak table, the scent of turpentine and beeswax grounding her for a moment. "Of course," she managed, her voice softer than she intended. She gestured toward the back shelves where the archival boxes were stored, her movements stiff under Maris's watchful eye. Jalen followed, his footsteps quiet on the worn wooden floor, the faint scent of fresh air and something like sandalwood trailing him. He set his camera bag down with a gentle thud, his gaze lingering on the careful stacks of sketches she pulled from their protective sleeves. "These are remarkable," he murmured, his fingers hovering just above the paper without touching, a respect for the medium that she hadn't expected. "The line work—it's so sure. Yours?" Elara felt a flush creep up her neck, warming the skin beneath her cotton collar. She nodded, unable to form words as his attention focused entirely on her work, on the private thoughts she had translated into graphite and paper. From across the room, Maris cleared her throat, the sound slicing through the quiet. "The reports are in the blue binder, Elara. Mr. Rhys doesn't need a gallery tour of your doodles." Her tone was clipped, a reminder of hierarchy, of purpose. But Jalen didn't look away from Elara; instead, he smiled, a small, private curve of his lips that seemed to acknowledge the reprimand and dismiss it all at once. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "I think they're a lot more than doodles," he said, and the warmth in his tone felt like a secret shared. Elara’s breath