The words felt like swallowing sand, each one a dry, foreign object in his throat. Leaf’s heart hammered a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his ribs, a buzz of nervous energy that felt like drinking carbonated lightning. He forced the phrase out, framing the gallery mixer as a crucial ‘networking event’ for their ‘project,’ hating how stilted and false it sounded even to his own ears. He watched Rowen’s hands, strong and smudged with grease, as they methodically wiped a thick layer of grime from a socket wrench with an already-filthy rag. This was the moment the fragile, beautiful illusion he’d been building would shatter into a million pieces.
Rowen paused, his movements economical and sure, and looked up. His gaze was steady, cutting through the low hum of the garage’s fluorescent lights and Leaf’s spiraling panic. He didn’t question the flimsy premise or mock the transparent formality of the invitation. Instead, he just gave a simple, easy nod that seemed to settle the vibrating air between them.
“Sure, man,” he said, his voice a low rumble that was somehow grounding. “I gotta wash up first, though.”
To Leaf, the simple agreement felt like a tectonic shift, a monumental concession that went far beyond mere politeness. Rowen wasn’t just placating him; he was willingly stepping out of his world of steel and oil and into Leaf’s world of white walls and whispered critiques. The delusion, which had been a tentative seedling only moments before, bloomed into something vibrant and intoxicating, its roots digging deep into the fertile ground of his hope. He was coming with him.
They arrived at The Canvas Gallery, and the contrast between them was an immediate, physical thing. Leaf wore his best jacket, a garment artfully distressed to look cheap when it had, in fact, cost a month’s worth of instant noodles. He fidgeted with the frayed cuffs, his slender frame swallowed by the cavernous, echoing space. Rowen stood beside him in a clean, dark-blue work shirt and well-worn jeans, his solid presence a disruption in the sea of minimalist black outfits and severe, architectural hairstyles. He was a boulder in a stream of polished pebbles.
The gallery itself was an exercise in sterile pretension, with stark white walls that climbed to a vaulted ceiling and floors of polished concrete that reflected the cold, unforgiving track lighting. The air smelled of chilled white wine and something vaguely chemical, like turpentine trying to be sophisticated. Rowen looked around with a calm, unbothered curiosity, his gaze taking in the abstract canvases and tortured metal sculptures without a hint of the intimidation that always prickled at Leaf’s own skin in places like this. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Leaf: a fierce, protective pride, and a deep, abject terror. He had brought a wolf to a poodle convention, and he wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or horrified.
They found Felix and Jude near a makeshift bar, a long slab of white marble where a bored-looking attendant was pouring wine. Felix, who thrived in these environments like a particularly flamboyant species of fungus, immediately swooped in. His own outfit was a masterpiece of calculated eccentricity, all sharp angles and a shocking splash of magenta. He greeted Rowen not with a handshake but with a theatrical flourish, his hands gesturing grandly as his voice boomed over the polite murmur of the crowd.
“And this must be him!” Felix proclaimed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Leaf’s Herculean muse of the industrial arts! An absolute vision of raw, authentic power. It is a delight.”
Rowen, utterly unfazed by the dramatic introduction, just blinked. He offered a simple, one-word reply that seemed to absorb all of Felix’s chaotic energy into its quiet solidity.
“Hey.”
Jude, ever the counterbalance to Felix’s effervescence, gave Rowen a much more measured look. His gaze was a silent, thorough assessment, a quick scan that seemed to take in everything from Rowen’s sturdy work boots to the quiet confidence in his posture. After a moment, he gave a short, decisive nod of greeting, a gesture of acceptance that felt more meaningful than all of Felix’s flowery prose. The social awkwardness settled around them like a thick, tangible cloud, and Leaf found himself trying desperately to mediate, to build a bridge between the frantic, buzzing energy of his friends and the deep, steady calm that was Rowen.
Just as a fragile, stumbling rhythm of conversation began to form—Felix interrogating Rowen about the tensile strength of different metals, Jude silently observing, and Leaf trying to translate—a new presence cut through the crowd. Leaf felt the shift before he saw it, a subtle parting of the waters as people instinctively made way. It was Victor. He moved with the slick, predatory grace of a shark, his smile as polished and dangerous as a shard of glass.
Victor was the kind of artist Leaf both loathed and envied. His work was technically brilliant, photorealistic paintings of mundane objects rendered with excruciating detail, but they were as emotionally vacant as a corporate lobby. He was a commercial juggernaut, beloved by critics who mistook precision for soul, and he had always treated Leaf with a particular brand of dismissive, condescending contempt. He spotted their small group, and his smile widened, his eyes locking onto Leaf as he changed course, heading directly for them.
Leaf’s stomach plummeted, the wine he’d been nursing turning to acid.
Victor’s greeting was a masterclass in passive aggression, his voice smooth and laced with a poison that only his target could truly taste. “Leaf! So good to see you out of your… studio.” He let the word hang in the air, implying a hovel. “I heard you were slumming it for your new project. How very… populist of you.”
His gaze flickered over Rowen, a dismissive gesture that took him in from head to toe before landing back on Leaf. “So this is the gimmick?”
The words were spoken just loudly enough for the surrounding patrons to turn their heads, their conversations faltering. The insult landed like a tiny, sharp stone, and Leaf felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. Victor, sensing his advantage, pressed on, beginning to publicly dissect and mock Leaf’s nascent ‘found-object’ concept. He used a torrent of art-world jargon to frame it as a desperate, amateurish ploy for attention, a pathetic attempt by a struggling artist to seem relevant and edgy.
“It’s a bold choice, I’ll grant you, leaning into the whole ‘post-industrial decay’ trope,” Victor mused, swirling the red wine in his glass. “A bit derivative of the early aughts, but I suppose everything old is new again for those who weren’t paying attention the first time.” Under the condescending glare, under the weight of the jargon and the barely-veiled scorn, Leaf felt himself physically shrink, his newfound confidence evaporating like mist in a harsh, unforgiving sun.
Unsatisfied with merely eviscerating Leaf’s art, Victor turned his full, charming attention to the man standing silently beside him. He shifted his body, angling it slightly to block Leaf out of the conversation, a subtle but deliberate act of exclusion. His smile became warmer, more intimate, as he focused on Rowen, who had been watching the exchange with a blank, unreadable expression.
“It must be so fascinating, being an… inspiration,” Victor purred, the word dripping with insinuation. “Tell me, what’s the process? Does he have you pose with a wrench, all brooding and masculine?”
He leaned in closer, his manicured hand briefly touching the sturdy fabric of Rowen’s sleeve, a proprietary gesture that sent a jolt of ice through Leaf’s veins. “Or is it more of a… collaborative effort?” The innuendo was thick and suffocating, a foul slick on the air. This wasn’t just about art anymore; it was a territorial claim, a public display of dominance meant to humiliate Leaf on every possible level.
But the carefully crafted barb, with all its layered meaning and venomous subtext, sailed completely over its intended secondary target’s head. Rowen didn’t flinch or react to the touch. He just looked at Victor with that same placid, straightforward gaze, completely missing the undercurrent of the question.
“Nah,” Rowen answered plainly, his voice cutting through the cloying tension. “He just draws the junk I have lying around.”
Across the room, near the relative safety of the wine bar, Felix and Jude were witnessing the entire disaster unfold. Felix’s hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides, his knuckles straining against his skin. He looked ready to storm over and throw his entire glass of chardonnay directly into Victor’s smug, handsome face, social consequences be damned.
“I’m going to end him,” Felix hissed, taking a half-step forward.
Jude, however, had a firm, grounding grip on his friend’s arm, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of Felix’s jacket. “Don’t,” Jude ordered, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “Don’t you dare make a scene. That’s what he wants.”
While physically restraining his volatile friend, Jude’s other hand was a blur of motion, his thumb flying across the screen of his phone. Leaf’s pocket vibrated with a frantic, silent staccato. A quick glance down revealed a series of rapid-fire messages from Jude, a chaotic stream-of-consciousness of support and terrible advice.
`IGNORE HIM`
`HE’S A HACK HIS WORK LOOKS LIKE A CATALOG`
`PUNCH HIM.`
A second later, another message followed.
`NO DON’T PUNCH HIM. BAD IDEA.`
The silent, frantic drama playing out between his friends added a layer of dark, farcical tension to Leaf’s very real and very public misery. He felt trapped, pinned in place by Victor’s cruelty and the scrutiny of the crowd.
Having landed his blows and established his superiority to his own satisfaction, Victor offered a final, parting smirk. It was a thin, cruel slash of a smile that didn’t reach his cold eyes. With a dismissive little wave, he turned and drifted away, melting back into the crowd to mingle with gallery owners and art collectors, the people who actually mattered.
The silence he left behind was deafening, a vacuum that sucked all the air from Leaf’s lungs. The ambient chatter of the gallery slowly returned, but for Leaf, it was a distant, muffled roar. He was paralyzed, caught in a toxic cocktail of professional shame and a sharp, unfamiliar sting of jealousy that burned in his chest. He just wanted to disappear, to flee the gallery and the city and his own skin. He opened his mouth, the words “We should go” already forming on his tongue.
Just as he was about to give voice to his defeat, a hand settled on his shoulder.
It was warm and heavy, the pressure solid and real, an anchor in the swirling vortex of his anxiety. Rowen’s fingers pressed gently into the fabric of his jacket, a simple, grounding touch that seemed to bleed warmth directly into his chilled body. Leaf looked up, startled, into Rowen’s steady gaze.
“That guy’s a jerk,” Rowen said, his voice a low, steady rumble meant only for Leaf. There was no pity in his eyes, only a simple statement of fact. “Don’t let him get to you.”
The words were so simple, so straightforward. They were devoid of the complex jargon Victor had used as a weapon, free of the frantic energy of his friends. It was just a plain, unvarnished declaration of loyalty, and it cut through all of Leaf’s swirling panic and humiliation like a beam of light through smoke. In that moment, in Leaf’s overwrought and hopeful mind, this wasn’t just an act of friendship. It was a choice. It was a declaration.
Rowen had chosen his side.
The romantic delusion, momentarily threatened by the ugly reality of Victor’s attack, came roaring back to life. It returned stronger and more vibrant than before, fortified by this simple, profound act of solidarity. Standing there in the cold, white gallery, with the weight of Rowen’s hand on his shoulder, Leaf felt something unshakeable settle deep within him.
—
Experience the slow-burn, heart-wrenching story of Leaf, a digitally blocked artist, and his deeply complicated friendship with Rowen in The Art of Unrequited. This emotional contemporary romance and slice-of-life tale explores unrequited love, personal growth, and creative inspiration, perfect for fans of fiction, slow-burn romances, friends-to-lovers tension, and character-driven storytelling. Click here to read the whole story.
