There was a machine attached to my sister that always beeped. It was the first thing I heard when I woke up that morning, the sound of her heart beating in red waves that filled the screen. It was a reminder that she was alive, and sometimes it felt like she was watching. That one day Katie'd wake up and take one look at my face, and then she'd know her brother was falling in love.

But not with his girlfriend.

My mom told me that same sound was the reason she slept in Katie's hospital room every night. That she liked to wake up to the reminder that her baby girl was alive. That her heart was still beating even with her eyes closed.

I wondered what she would think if she knew the truth. If she knew that I slept here because it made me feel less alone. That it made the guilt stay at bay knowing Katie's eyes were closed and she couldn't see what was happening in the world she wasn't in anymore.

I woke up that morning to the sound of her heart beating on a screen, and to Santana sitting on the couch, watching me.

"Morning," I said, rubbing my eyes with my knuckles. "How long have you been up?"

"Just an hour." She leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Eden came by to see Katie."

I sat up a little straighter. "She did? Is she still here?"

Santana shook her head. I knew she could hear it in my voice, the eagerness, the hope, but she didn't say anything. Her eyes, though. Those told a different story. Because Santana had these eyes that were like glass. I could see right through them, read every thought, every emotion. And right now, she was angry. But we were laying on a couch beside my sister in a coma, so she was trying to hide it.

"She left, said something about having class," Santana said, standing up and stretching her arms above her head. "Wanna get breakfast?"

"No, I'll stay here for a little. You go."

"I'll stay with you," she said, smiling. She was back on the couch, back in my lap, kissing my neck when I gently pushed her off me.

"San, stop." She moved her hands down my chest, then under the blanket. "Santana, stop. We're in a fucking hospital, my sister is right here."

"She can't see us," she murmured, "she doesn't even know we're here."

"So we should just make out on this fucking couch while she's five-feet away, unconscious?"

Santana sighed, looking up at me with her wide eyes. "You're right. I'm sorry."

She was off my lap when my phone rang, opening the blinds and letting the sun in. I rummaged through the couch looking for it, finding it squished between the cushions. Eden's name was on the screen.

"Hey devil."

"Where are you?" she asked. So much for greetings.

"Where are you? It sounds like you're walking through a microwave."

Eden laughed, and I stepped out into the hallway. "I'm getting on the subway," she said. "Are you home? I need a favour."

"I'm not home, but I can be home," I said. Santana was sitting on the couch, putting her shoes on with her purse resting on her knees. "What's the favour?"

"I need to stare at your face for the next . . . few hours."

"I'm intrigued."

The line was going static, and I could barely hear Eden speaking. "It's for class. Can you be home in twenty minutes?"

I'd be home in two if that's what she wanted. "Yes," I said.

"Great. And Truman?"

Santana was standing beside me now, waiting to leave. She nodded at my phone, mouthing, "Who is that?" I ignored her and turned around a little.

"Yeah?" I said to Eden.

"Santana needs to be there, too."

____

Eden was already waiting in the hallway, sitting against the door to my apartment by the time Santana and I got there. She looked annoyed with her knees pulled to her chest, her bag thrown on the other side of the hall.

"You said twenty minutes," she hissed, staring deliberately at me, "not an hour."

Santana sighed, leaning against the wall as I opened the door. "What's this about?"

"Ask Eden," I said.

"Or maybe ask your boyfriend about his part-time job pulling his underwear down in front of a class of freshman," she mumbled, pushing past me into the apartment.

Santana was laughing, brushing her red hair around around her shoulders. "Right. You're a model now."

"Are you two going to team up on me? 'Cause Eden can find someone else to fucking paint."

Eden, to my surprise, was standing beside the table, laughing. Her bag was open, and she was pulling out bottles of paint and taking a white canvas out of a garbage bag.

"Why do I need to be here?" Santana asked. She threw her coat onto the couch before disappearing into the bathroom, not bothering to wait for an answer.

"Why is she here?" I asked when the door shut. I picked up a bottle of black paint before Eden slapped it out of my hand.

"For company," Eden said.

"I can be company." Eden glared at me, pulling out paint brushes now. "Oh. You mean company you don't want to kiss. Got it."

She shoved her finger into my chest. "That is exactly why your girlfriend is here, Truman. To stop you from saying stupid shit like that. Now sit down and open the blinds. The lighting in here is horrible."

"Yes, Ma'am."

It was a little past one, and the sun poured into the room when I pulled the curtains open. I flopped onto the couch and watched Eden grab a paper plate from above the stove. She poured different colours of paint onto it, her eyebrows scrunched together as she concentrated. It was really fucking adorable. I wished I was the one painting her.

"A paper plate?" I called from the couch. "What kind of artist are you?"

"The kind that's forced to take this class to graduate. Will you shut up? Pretend you're a stone statue," she said, grinning. "Those ones can't talk."

"You're in a mood."

"I'm always in a mood," she shot back.

Before I could agree, Santana walked out of the bathroom and grabbed her coat off the couch. She was halfway through the buttons when Eden yelled, "Where are you going?" She was staring at Santana with her eyes wide open, terrified. "You can't leave."

I rolled my eyes and stretched out on the couch.

"I have to. Why do you need me here anyway? You're painting Tru."

"Because. . ." Eden was glaring at me, silently asking me to say something to make Santana say. I shrugged, winking at her. She gave me the finger then went back to pouring paint.

"I'll be back tonight," Santana said, walking over to the couch and kissing me quickly. A second later she was gone, out the door. And then it was just the two of us.

"She's trusting," Eden commented.

"I'm trustworthy."

"You're a million things, Truman. Believe me when I say trustworthy is not one of them."

Eden took a seat on the chair across from me. She crossed her legs and placed the white canvas on her lap, holding a brush in one hand and the plate of paint in the other.

"You could have just sucked it up, painted me naked and avoided this entire day," I said, watching her.

"Don't say 'suck' and 'naked' in the same sentence."

"I see where your mind is. I like it," I teased.

"Truman," she sighed, placing the plate on the floor. "Can you be serious for one hour? I'm trying to paint you to get a good grade. I'm not here to flirt with you."

"Why'd you want Santana here?" I asked.

"Because being alone with you is distracting."

"The Garden of Eden," I said with a smile. "So beautiful. So tempting."

"Something like that," she murmured. "Can you lean back a little? Just relax. And brush your hair out of your face—Yeah, like that. Turn your head to the side a little so the sun . . . Perfect. Okay, don't move."

"I thought this was a nude-thing like last time."

"I thought I said no talking."

"You're a mean one, Eden Flores," I said.

"I thought devils were supposed to be mean."

I grinned. Ear-to-fucking-ear. "That may be my favourite thing you've ever said."

We sat there in silence. The only sound was the stroke of Eden's brush, and her occasional sigh. I couldn't see a single thing she painted, but I could tell she was annoyed from the look on her face. And she kept holding the brush between her teeth to tie her hair up, then take it down, then tie it again.

She was mesmerizing. I think the only one of us doing the staring here was me.

"Your eyes are annoying," she said after what felt like an hour. "There's no paint that's the right colour blue for them. They're like glass one second, and the sky the next."

I couldn't stop looking at her. Not even at her face. But her hands. Her ankles. The way the canvas was propped against her knee and the spot of black paint on her cheek, the colour I knew she chose for my hair. Looking at Eden was like standing in the middle of a museum. There was so much to see. It was like your eyes were fighting each other to find somewhere to land.

"You're beautiful," I whispered. It was too low. I knew she couldn't hear me. So I said it again. And again.

"I can see your lips moving," she said, brush held midair, "but I can't hear you."

"Good. Are you almost done?"

"I guess. It's not very good. I'm not good at art, just so you know. Don't expect, like, the Mona Lisa or something."

I laughed. "I was never expecting that."

Now she smiled. And this time, my eyes knew exactly where to look. "Good," she repeated.

I watched her unfold herself from the chair and walk towards me. Each step had my heart racing, moving into my throat. The sun hit the side of her face, danced across her cheek. And then she sat beside me, her knee touching mine.

"Let me see," I said. She was holding the canvas away from me, shaking her head. "Eden, let me see."

"It's bad."

"I know."

"You're fucking rude!" She was smiling as she yelled, her lips curling around the words. It was one of my favourite things she did.

"Just show me. I won't laugh."

With a sigh, she turned the canvas towards me. I studied it for a minute, then said, "You were right. That's fucking horrible."

"Truman!" She was punching my arm, and I was sure this wasn't safe. I mean, the paint was still wet. She was going to destroy my couch and the canvas all at once. But I didn't care. I didn't think she did either.

"It's not that bad," she said, studying her work. "Your head is kind of lopsided, and I don't think one of your eyes should be bigger than the other, but it's all right."

"When you receive your grade, can I have it?"

"The painting?" she asked. I nodded. "Why would you want this?"

"I want to frame it," I said, standing up. I pointed to the blank wall above the couch. "Right there."

"I don't think Santana would like that," she whispered.

"I don't think Santana would like every thought running through my mind right now."

Eden placed the canvas on the couch. Then she stood beside me, folding her arms across her chest. "Truman." She said it in that voice, the one that told me she was going to push me away in a second. But I didn't want that. I didn't want to be pushed away and cast aside. I wanted to be hers.

So for once, just one damn time, I pushed all the thoughts aside. I stopped thinking altogether. I forgot about promises, about every person that existed outside these walls, and I grabbed Eden's face. Her mouth opened, probably to yell at me, but I kissed her before she could get the words out. I grabbed her neck and held her face there, against mine, and I fucking kissed her because it was the only thing I wanted to do.

And when she caved, her body relaxing into mine, I lost myself somewhere in the feel of her hands on my face, then on my back. I could feel the wet paint on her fingertips as they touched my cheek. I could taste the anger and the temptation and how wrong this was, but neither of us stopped. Because we needed this.

This wasn't just a kiss, this was a lifeline. And we were both sick of pretending it was anything less than that.

I can't remember how long we stood there. When the door to my apartment opened, neither of us noticed. I was too busy wondering how long it would take for me to take all her clothes off and carry her into my bedroom.

Then Santana cleared her throat. Then Eden pulled away. And then the three of us were standing there, only two with paint on our hands.

_____

omg. ok. thoughts? this scene actually wasn't supposed to happen until later on in

the book but i couldn't hold back haha