Sunlight and Canvas

The wind picked up again, smelling of dry grass and the distant, sugary exhaust of a funnel cake truck, and Corey swore under his breath as the corner of his largest canvas panel threatened to flip over. He lunged, elbows knocking against the rickety wooden easel, sending a stack of smaller, unframed watercolors skittering across the dust-packed ground of the marketplace. This, he thought, was exactly why he usually just sold online. Less public humiliation. Less wind. Less… eyes.

He knelt, scrambling to collect the scattered artwork, the tips of his fingers gritty. His hoodie, stretched over his head like a cowl, did little to keep the strands of hair from sticking to his forehead. Sweat-damp, probably, from wrestling with the display since dawn. The sun, already high, pressed down, even through the thin canopy he’d rigged up. It was supposed to be a good day. People were out, music from a distant folk band warbled through the air, and the aroma of roasted peanuts mingled with cheap coffee. But right now, it felt like a cosmic joke, played out solely for his benefit.

A shadow fell over him, not the shifting, uncertain shadow of a cloud, but something solid, still. Corey froze, one hand on a watercolor of a red-winged blackbird, the other still brushing at a stray leaf clinging to a landscape. He didn’t look up immediately. He couldn't. His cheeks felt hot, and he knew a flush was creeping up his neck. This was it. Someone was going to say something, offer help in that overly cheerful way that made him want to crawl into one of his own painted river scenes and stay there.

Instead, a hand, broad and steady, reached down. It wasn’t a clumsy grab, or a tentative poke. It was simply there, palm open, offering to help with a small, fallen charcoal sketch. Corey’s breath caught, a tiny, involuntary hitch in his chest. He still didn’t look up, not really, but his eyes tracked the movement of the hand as it gently scooped up the sketch, then another, placing them neatly on a small, empty patch of canvas next to him.

“Careful with these,” a low voice rumbled, not loud, but firm. “Charcoal smudges easy.”

It wasn’t a question, not an offer, just a statement of fact. Corey finally risked a glance, tilting his head back slightly. The man was tall, easily a head taller than Corey even when Corey was standing, and his shoulders filled out a worn denim jacket in a way that spoke of actual use, not just fashion. Dark hair, a bit too long, fell across a strong brow. His eyes, the color of wet river stone, held a calm that made Corey’s own frantic pulse feel like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.

“Oh,” Corey managed, the sound a thin squeak he immediately hated. He pushed his hood back, feeling the cooler air on his scalp, a brief relief. “Yeah. Yeah, they do. Thanks. I… the wind. It’s a bit…” He gestured vaguely, feeling his ears burn. He always talked too much when he was nervous, a rapid-fire string of half-formed thoughts that usually ended up sounding less coherent than a squirrel on caffeine.

The man didn’t interrupt, didn’t even offer a dismissive nod. He just watched Corey for a moment, his gaze steady, almost unnervingly so. It wasn’t critical, not exactly, but it felt like he was seeing straight through the flimsy stall, through Corey’s flimsy excuses, right to the frantic scramble inside. He made no move to leave. He just stood there, a quiet, immovable anchor in the swirling chaos of the market.

“You’ve got good hands,” the man said, his voice again, low. He gestured to Corey’s hands, still smudged with charcoal dust, a faint streak of cobalt paint near his thumb. “Steady.”

Corey blinked. “My hands?” He held them up, turning them over, as if seeing them for the first time. They were artists’ hands, he supposed. Not particularly delicate, a bit scarred from accidental knife slips and paint stains that never quite washed out. But ‘steady’? He felt anything but steady right now. His stomach was doing somersaults, his heart thrummed a frantic beat against his ribs. What was this man doing? Why was he still here?

“Yeah,” the man confirmed, his eyes still on Corey’s hands for another beat before flicking back up to Corey’s face. “They are. Your lines are clean.” He nodded towards a pen-and-ink drawing of a solitary cedar tree, its roots gripping a rocky shore, propped up against the main display. It was one of Corey’s favorites, one he rarely put out, too afraid of judgment.

Corey felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest, not just from the sun. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a mix of embarrassment and something else… something akin to being truly seen. “Oh. That one. Thanks. It’s… it was a good day, when I drew that. Up on the cliffs.” He trailed off, suddenly wondering why he was sharing this with a total stranger. This was so not him. He was the quiet artist who hid behind his work, not the one babbling about inspiration to a man who looked like he could fell a tree with a single swing.

“John,” the man said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and surprisingly gentle. Corey’s smaller, paint-stained fingers felt almost lost in it. The contact sent a jolt, a quick, sharp spike of something electric, up Corey’s arm. He suppressed a shiver.

“Corey,” he replied, a little breathless, pulling his hand back perhaps a fraction too quickly. He felt the phantom warmth of John’s touch linger, like a branding. He wanted to wipe his palm on his jeans, but also… didn’t. He just tucked his hand into his pocket instead, fiddling with a loose button.

John didn’t seem to notice Corey’s awkwardness, or if he did, he didn’t comment. He just stood there, radiating a quiet strength that was both intimidating and… comforting. Corey found himself glancing at John’s mouth, the way his lips rested in a soft, unsmiling line, then quickly away. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He was attracted to this man. A stranger. At his art stall. While he looked like a dishevelled mess of charcoal and anxiety.

“You paint the landscapes too?” John asked, his gaze drifting to the larger canvas Corey had been fighting with, a vast expanse of rolling hills under a bruised sky, a distant storm brewing. There was a raw energy to it, a sense of impending change that reflected Corey’s own internal state more than he cared to admit.

“Yeah, mostly. I mean, the birds, the trees… it’s all connected, right? The land, the sky. I try to capture… you know, the feeling of it. Not just what it looks like, but what it *feels* like.” Corey gestured emphatically, nearly knocking over a small pot of brushes. He caught it just in time, a nervous laugh escaping him.

John’s eyes, those steady river stones, didn’t leave him. “I see it,” he said, simply. No elaborate praise, no flowery words, just that plain, honest assessment. And for some reason, that felt more validating than any effusive compliment Corey had ever received. It was like John just… got it. Got *him*.

Corey shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of his worn jeans, the paint splatters on his old t-shirt, the way his hair probably looked like a crow’s nest. He felt vulnerable, exposed, yet strangely… seen. Not judged. Just seen. He liked that. He liked it a lot more than he probably should.

“You… uh… you an artist?” Corey asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his own nervous ramblings. He immediately regretted it. John didn’t look like an artist. More like a ranch hand, or maybe a carpenter. Something solid, grounded.

John gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No. Work with my hands, though. Wood. Metal.” He paused, then added, “Helps you appreciate the patience. The work. In something like this.” He nodded towards Corey’s storm-swept canvas.

Corey’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Wood. Metal. Strong hands. He imagined John shaping rough lumber, sparks flying from metal, a quiet focus in his dark eyes. The thought sent another unexpected jolt through him, a curious blend of admiration and something warmer, deeper.

“Patience,” Corey echoed, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. “Yeah. A lot of that. And a lot of frustration. And then, sometimes, it just… clicks. And you get it.” He picked up a small charcoal stick from his table, turning it between his fingers. “Like finding the right line. Or the right shade of green.”

John watched him, his gaze following the charcoal stick. “It’s good to get it,” he said. There was an understated approval in his tone, a quiet strength that made Corey feel… settled. Grounded. Like the solid earth beneath his feet, which, until moments ago, had felt like it was shifting precariously.

A silence stretched between them, not awkward, not exactly. It was a comfortable silence, filled with the buzzing of the market, the distant calls of vendors, the rustle of the wind through the canvas. Corey found himself just looking at John, really looking, for the first time without the crushing weight of his own self-consciousness. John’s jaw was strong, a faint scar near his left eyebrow hinting at stories Corey knew nothing about. He was older, perhaps, than Corey, but not by much. His scent, a faint mix of sawdust, clean cotton, and something earthy, was surprisingly appealing.

He found himself wanting to ask more, to know more about this man who had so quietly entered his chaotic morning. What kind of wood? What kind of metal? Did he make furniture? Sculptures? But the questions felt too big, too intrusive, for this moment. This fleeting connection at a dusty market stall.

John finally broke the silence. “This wind is going to get worse.” He gestured with his chin towards the far end of the market, where a vendor’s banner was flapping violently. “You might want to anchor that better.” He pointed at the corner of Corey’s main display, the one that had almost taken flight earlier.

Corey’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I should.” He started to reach for the corner, fumbling for the rope he’d tried to secure it with earlier. But John was already there, moving with an effortless grace that belied his size. He bent down, his broad back momentarily shielding Corey from the sun, and with a few deft movements, tightened a loose knot, then pulled a small, heavy sandbag from beneath Corey’s table – a sandbag Corey had completely forgotten existed – and wedged it against the base of the easel.

When John straightened, he was closer than before, his shoulder almost brushing Corey’s arm. Corey could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the subtle scent of him more clearly. His heart gave another little lurch, a skip in its rhythm. He instinctively leaned back a fraction, just a tiny, imperceptible movement, but it was enough to create a sliver of space, a tiny breath of air between them.

John’s eyes met his again, and this time, there was a faint, almost imperceptible softening around their edges. A hint of something. Understanding? Amusement? Corey couldn’t tell. He just knew that in that moment, under the blazing sun, with the market swirling around them, John’s gaze felt like the only thing that was truly steady in his world.

“Better,” John said, his voice a quiet murmur, almost lost in the din. He didn’t step back immediately. He just stood there, letting the proximity linger, letting the unspoken tension hum between them. Corey’s fingers twitched, a sudden urge to reach out, to trace the line of John’s jaw, to feel the texture of his worn jacket. He swallowed, hard.

“Yeah,” Corey managed, his voice barely a whisper. “Much. Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say. His mind, usually so full of words and images, felt utterly blank, except for the overwhelming awareness of John. Of his presence. Of the way his calm gaze seemed to strip away all of Corey’s usual defenses.

John finally took a step back, the movement slow and deliberate, as if reluctant to break the spell. But his eyes remained on Corey’s face, a lingering, almost searching look. Corey felt his own cheeks flush again, a deeper, more insistent heat this time. He couldn't look away, couldn’t break the connection. It was too intense, too charged. Every nerve ending in his body was singing, a silent, desperate chorus.

“You have good work, Corey,” John said, his voice softer now, almost a suggestion. He glanced one last time at the large landscape, then back at Corey, a small, knowing smile playing on the corner of his lips. It was a fleeting expression, gone almost as soon as it appeared, but it left a lasting impression.

Then, with a final, almost imperceptible nod, John turned and walked away. He didn’t rush. His strides were long, even. Corey watched him go, a strange mix of relief and crushing disappointment warring within him. He watched until John’s broad shoulders disappeared into the stream of market-goers, swallowed by the bright colors and shifting shadows. Corey was left standing there, rooted to the spot, a sudden, aching emptiness in his chest where John’s steady presence had been. He pressed his palm to his sternum, feeling the frantic beat of his heart, still thrumming from the quiet, unexpected intensity of their encounter. His mind, usually so busy, was a whirlwind of half-formed questions, anxieties, and a desire he hadn't known he possessed.

He looked down at his hand, the one John had held, then at the charcoal stick still clutched in his other. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to draw, to capture the strong lines of John’s jaw, the quiet intensity of his eyes. But he also felt a pang of regret. He hadn’t asked for John’s number. He hadn’t even thought to. Too flustered. Too… himself. And now John was gone, a phantom warmth on his skin, a lingering scent of sawdust in the air. The wind, anchored now, still rustled the canvas, but it no longer felt like a personal attack. It just felt like the world, moving on. Without him. Or, rather, without John in his immediate orbit. He traced a faint, unconscious line on the back of his hand with the charcoal stick, a line that felt both solid and utterly ephemeral, like a memory already fading, yet somehow… also just beginning. He wondered if John would ever come back, if he’d ever see those steady, river-stone eyes again. And the thought, a fragile, hopeful thing, was almost as terrifying as it was exhilarating.