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Dawn at the Studio

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Roy McBride had become spoiled in the last year. He would not share that tidbit of knowledge with anyone, but that did not mean he didn’t know it. He knew he was spoiled, and he relished that knowledge.

 

He was a man used to the hard bunk beds of the academy with their extremely thin mattresses. When he first stayed the night at your home, though, he was very surprised by how his back stopped holding tension as soon as he laid down on the bed. There were other perks to sharing your bed, of course, but the mattress was a welcomed change too.

 

He still woke up early, but discovered with delight that if you had not spent the entire night in the studio, you usually woke up a few moments after he did. Those smiles and little kisses in bed before the day began were treasured by him.

 

Every morning you had breakfast together. Sometimes a simple breakfast (oatmeal or scrambled eggs), and other times a more elaborate one (French toast or poached eggs). It didn’t exactly matter what you ate as long as you did it together. Roy especially loved listening to you speak of your plans for the day. What canvases had to be prepared, which ones had to be taken to town. He didn’t understand a lot about the artistic process, granted, but he nonetheless enjoyed it.

 

Whenever you were around, life became imbued with a special type of happiness that he had never felt before. He got used to sleeping through the night with you in his arms, and his nightmares started to recede.

 

Yes, Roy McBride was spoiled. Which is perhaps why he felt so upset when he woke up and found you gone.

 

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Four minutes to two in the morning. And the bed was cold on you side, too. With a frown, Roy stood up and walked down the hallway, opening each door he passed and checking inside for you. When he didn’t find you, he put on a pair of shoes and crossed the garden to the small studio. He pushed the door open and a small smile graced his lips.

 

You were standing on top of a ladder (once white but not spattered with paint), and painting on a canvas. He could tell inspiration had struck, and you wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. Wordlessly he went to the small kitchenette and turned on the coffee maker. Then, he grabbed one of the books he kept there, and went to sit on a rocking chair.

 

When dawn came, you were both still there.