This is what performing an autopsy must feel like. But my subject is living, breathing fast, eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. Since she's so scantily clad, it isn't hard to see everything I need to see.

I start with her face. Her cheeks. Then underneath her bangs along her forehead and her brow. Her skin is hot to the touch, and it only warms as I continue. I trace her nose and her chin, visualizing the angles, and then measure her proportions with my ruler, committing the numbers to memory.

She opens her eyes and stares right at me. "This is the gayest moment of my entire life."

I trace down the curve of her neck. "I don't understand how you can say that when you've had sex with a girl."

She immediately sits up, putting a stop to my osteological study. "Who says I've had sex?"

"...haven't you?"

"No! That's like... way too intimate. And I'm Catholic."

"So you won't have sex until marriage?"

"Uh... I guess."

"And you think the Catholic God would approve of you having a wife?"

"I mean... why not? God isn't homophobic—all the problematic stuff in the Bible is man-made... but I'm not getting married anyway. I wouldn't wanna put anyone through that with the type of life I have."

"Right."

I don't know why it's so shocking to me that she's a virgin. I've been judging her all these years for her skimpy clothes and her egregious displays of PDA. Did any of her little girlfriends try anything with her? Did she stop them? Is that why none of them seem to last?

She frowns. "You really thought I was just some cheap slut, huh?"

"Well, somewhat, yes."

And then she slaps me. My head jerks to the side, and I slowly bring it back and stare her down.

"Are you trying to instigate a fight, Eris?" I ask.

"You have no idea how badly I want to do that right now instead of having you stick your ruler in my face."

Her death glare is borderline nostalgic, paralleling the utter disdain she's directed at me all these years. We're fifteen, sixteen, seventeen again, her giving me the middle finger from across the classroom, her whispering insults while passing me in the halls. Peace, actual peace between us is impossible; any kindness we build up shatters with the smallest push, fragile like one of my mother's old nice plates she never used anyway.

"I'm sorry," I say to appease her. "I shouldn't have made assumptions about you."

"You shouldn't be such a judgmental, slut-shaming bitch."

"Stop calling me that."

"What's the word in French for it? Or German? Or... you know any other languages, Ef? Would've expected you to know ten by now with how smart you say you are."

I used to speak fluent Kreyòl, and nothing fills me with more dread than how much I've forgotten, but I'm definitely not telling her that.

I place my hands on her shoulders and gently push her back to the floor. "Be quiet and let me measure you."

She bares her teeth at me. "Need to see the inside of my mouth, too, pendeja?"

Her teeth are white and—other than her front gap—perfectly straight as a result of the braces she used until junior year. With my hand under her chin, I shut her mouth closed and let my hand trail to her collarbone. I press her skin like it's clay and feel every edge and contour, already making mental corrections for the painting.

She clenches her jaw, staring furiously at the ceiling, and I can tell she's fighting the urge to kick me, to punch me, to be the one to pin me down instead. She can't stand not being in control, and no one seems to put her in her place but me.

The bones in her arms are more difficult to feel, making me squeeze harder until I get to her wrists and hands. It's as if I have x-ray vision, seeing through her skin straight to the marrow of her bones. She doesn't have any jewelry on, and she's oddly bare without it. No smudged eyeliner, either. It's bizarre to see her not look grimy for once.

I trace each of her knuckles, her stubby fingers with the bitten-down nails which always repulsed me. I half-expect her to grab my hand and pull me against her like she did this morning, but she stays still, even as her breathing quickens the longer I dwell on her hands.

"Such an obedient subject," I say. Because I can never, ever stop myself from mocking her.

"Pinche hypocrite, now it's you who's instigating. I'm not falling for the bait; I'm not—" she stops, her back arching once I reach for her chest bellow her collar, measuring each line along the top of her sternum.

"I can't stand you," she breathes. "I can't wait for you to leave so I finally have something to look at other than your smug face."

She's been trying to control her lungs, each breath long and slow. But the steady rhythm breaks once I dare to go between her breasts and study the length of her sternum, barely covered by her shirt. The blush returns to her cheeks like a dead girl who's just been defibrillated back to life, and I remind myself of my scientific goal even as among the memorized centimetres and decimals all I can think about is the likely possibility that no one has touched her like this. Not this carefully, this deliberately, attentive to every detail.

I paint a mental image of her ribcage. My fingers have to dip slightly under the edge of her crop top to feel them all, and I'm very, very careful not to accidentally touch her breasts. She tenses even more than before—the girl is shaking with how hard she's working her core muscles here. I wait for her to say something, to stop me, but instead of flinching away, her back arches higher.

Oh, how homoerotic this must look to Guadalupe over there watching from the canvas. I would die of embarrassment if anyone walks in, which should be enough to stop me.

We've only painted the saints from the waist up. There is no need for me to go any lower than her ribs. My blood rushes to my head, and I remember when my mother took Fitz and I skydiving so many years ago. The all-consuming fear standing in that small German aircraft, matched in equal parts by thrill. But I couldn't bring myself to jump.

This time, I jump. I lower my hands to Eris' hipbones, and her breath stops, then accelerates. She wraps her arms around her chest and grips her shoulders like a vampire in a coffin, her fingers digging into her skin.

"Persephone," she says, her voice low and stilted, and I abruptly take my hands away.

"Turn around," I say.

She opens her eyes and glares at me. After several long seconds in which her gaze fills me with the full weight of her disdain, she finally follows my order and turns around. And now it's my breath that halts. To see her spine up close. It's too much all at once, too much skin, too much Eris. But it's for the painting. For the sake of artistry, of mastery. When would I get a chance like this again? Replicas and images of bones don't come close to the real, three-dimensional thing.

Until now, Eris has been an image, an apparition I can't get rid of, every inadvertent touch paralyzing me. Mapping her proportions is re-asserting my control, reminding myself of her humanity, purging any nervousness I might've felt as I see it now escalating rapidly in her.

I start at the base of her neck. Her flesh goes rough with goosebumps—I'm shocked she's not ticklish. I press each vertebrae and measure the outside of her ribs, adding the numbers to my previous measurements to determine the full circumference of each one.

I now realize I forgot to measure her hip bones. I should've, to justify why I touched her there, and now my mistake will hang over us forever.

"I think I missed a vertebrae on the painting," I say.

"Or maybe I just have one extra," she murmurs, and now she places both hands over her head as if we're in some earthquake drill.

"Statistically doubtful."

"Anatomy's never been your strong suit, Ef," she says. "Bet you didn't think I'd be the one to make you an expert."

I continue. I've always wanted to transcend this pitiful human form, not capture it perfectly like Michelangelo. But her spine. I've been waiting for the moment I get to her lower back and her dimples and—no. Absolutely no.

"Okay, I'm done," I make myself say. I hate leaving things unfinished.

She sits up, not turning around, and mockingly asks, "Did you get your measurements?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In my head."

"Oh excuse me, you fucking prodigy." She reaches for her vape pen, inhaling deeply.

"Thank you," I say. "That was brave, I suppose."

Between clouds of exhaled smoke, she mutters, "Now you won't be able to see me without thinking of your stupid measurements."

"True."

"Could you tell me what my cup size is? Or do you need another feel?"

"That's entirely unnecessary." I pause. "Well, if we had decided to paint a topless Guadalupe, maybe then I would have you strip down."

She finally turns around, her eyes wide.

"I'm joking," I clarify, though now my own face gets hot.

She swiftly grabs me by the neck as if she's going to choke me, but she pulls me closer, not cutting my circulation quite yet. I control my breathing just like she did, giving her a blank stare.

"No, I would have you strip down," she says, pressing her thumbs into the pulsing arteries at the top of my neck. "More to work with."

This is entirely too much, but this time it was entirely me who crossed the line.

"I would never allow that."

She lets go of me with a harsh push, and my throat aches for a second from the impact. "Oh yeah? And what if I asked for that as part of the deal you promised me?"

"That wouldn't be within reason."

"It would be totally within reason. But I'm not a pervert, and you don't interest me, so you can preserve your modesty, princesita."

"...are you ready to finish painting?"

"Fuck no. I need a joint. If I don't smoke right now I won't be able to stop myself from choking you for real."

I frown. "Are you mad at me?"

"I like to think I'm a hella chill person, but with you I'm always mad."

"What did I do now?"

She glances at my mouth. "You know exactly what you did. You might be a prude, but by God, you're such a fuckin' tease."

"Tease?" I ask. I have no idea what this means.

"Forget it. I need a break."

She gets up and storms off. I follow, but she's already halfway down the spiraling staircase.

"Am I supposed to wait in your studio like a helpless puppy until you come back?" I call out. "What's wrong with you?"

"I told you already, I need a damn break," she says without turning around. "Not from the painting—from you."

My steps slow. Over the years she's said so much worse, but none of it pierced me in the way this does now. She hates me. That's never changed. I'm so comfortable with the idea of hating her, but thinking about her hating me... I don't know. A nauseating shame spreads all over my body. Did I cross too many lines? Does she think I'm some kind of pervert now?

"For how long?" I ask.

Her shoulders tense. "Actually, I think you should go home."

"What? We're not even finished, I still have to incorporate the measurements and—"

"A mi me vale verga all your measurements and little plans," she snaps. "Bodyguards are on duty. They can take you back."

Why does my throat sting like I'm going to cry?

"When can I come back?" I ask, and I loathe how weak that question sounds—she's playing power games with me, forcing me to bow at her feet and beg her to let me stay and finish. Just because she's humiliated at what happened. Now I'm humiliated too, ashamed of my stupid curiosity.

It was for the art. It was just for the art.

"I don't know," she says. "I don't plan out every hour of my week like you do."

I hate, hate uncertainty—and that's all Eris consists of.

"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable," I say despite the feeling that I've swallowed acid, each word strained.

She turns around, staring up at me at the top of the stairs. "No, Persephone. That's the problem. You didn't."

I finally allow myself to breathe. "...so? What's wrong then?"

"I really can't be around you right now. Hell, I can't even be in this house right now. I can't sit and paint with you for another five hours—I need to get out. I'm going to pull all my hair out if I don't."

"Fine," I say. My parents raised me with manners—it's not right to overstay my welcome in someone else's home. "As you wish, Eris."

In the bathroom, I change into my dress from yesterday. I leave Axel's clothes folded neatly on the counter. When I look into the mirror, the girl staring back at me looks so young and naive and utterly sad. I should be thrilled to be going home where I can finish my daily to-do list and wash my hair for real. My roots need to be re-braided, anyway.

It's Eris' bodyguards who come knock on my door. They're in casual attire, looking like a pair of uncles who've been staying over with the family. Without saying anything, they lead me out of the house and into the black car. 

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a/n: this chapter is truly peak enemies to lovers content. i hope this satisfies what you came here for :PP 

listen to the song for this chapter linked in the header in the beginning! mátame marciana by chtzer

and i have several spotify playlists for this story! they should be linked in the very first part of this book (playlists + aesthetics)