Gemotions

The scent of oil paint and turpentine always settled a familiar heat in Amelia's chest. Decades spent hunched over canvases, coaxing landscapes into existence, had instilled a deep, almost primal comfort in her. Now, her son, Leo, at age eight, was replicating her studio, complete with miniature easels and brightly colored tubes. She watched him, a thrill coursing through her as he dipped a brush into crimson, his brow furrowed in concentration. Her fingers twitched, itching to grab a brush of her own, to join in. A tingling sensation spread from her stomach, making her breath catch slightly.

He looked up at her, eyes shining. "Mom, look! I'm painting the sunset just like you taught me!" The words sent a jolt of pleasure through her.