#anyways......

and then INFLATE some of the cubes by 0.001 to GET RID of Z-FIGHTING

and then use the ROTATE tool to make the JOINTS look MORE NATURAL (and don't forget to centralise the pivot point using the button on the right!)

and then GROUP all the cubes you might want to ANIMATE into organised BONES (you can't animate the cubes themselves, only the "bones", or the folders you see below)

and then you go into your PAINT tab on the TOP RIGHT and click the CREATE TEXTURE button....

and then you PAINT your model (using the texture preview on the top left to make sure you don't miss any spots)

and then you go into your ANIMATE tab on the TOP RIGHT and click the NEW ANIMATION button on the TOP LEFT. rename the animation to IDLE and set it to LOOP (sorry i forgot to highlight that part....)

and then you start by making your model "breathe"; raising the Y-LEVEL of the BONE of MAIN BODY by a SMALL AMOUNT (I've done a value of two here) and INFLATING it by an EVEN SMALLER AMOUNT (i've done a value of 0.02 here).

(NB: make sure that the BEGINNING KEYFRAME (the first little diamonds on the timeline at the bottom of the screen) values of both these at ZERO)

and then you LOWER the Y-LEVEL of the TAIL BONES and ROTATE each BONE so that they still fasten to the BONE of the MAIN BODY (so that it looks like it's moving up and down with the breaths)

(NB: making sure the PIVOT POINTS are centred is EXTRA IMPORTANT here!!!! USE THE BUTTON!!!!)

and then you DO THE SAME for the HEAD and NECK BONES....

and then you ROTATE (i've done that by a value of 2 here) and only SLIGHTLY lift the Y-LEVEL of the LEG BONES (i've done that by a value of 0.2 here)

(NB: make sure to leave those tootsie-feet alone -- we're not doing a walk cycle here, it's gonna look weird if they're sliding around too much).

and then you HASTILY add EYE BALL BONES because you FORGOT

which are MOSTLY INVISIBLE so you go back into the PAINT tab and click the APPEND ELEMENTS TO TEMPLATE... button

and then you PAINT them to look like CLOSED EYELID BONES and RESIZE them in the EDIT tab to fit over the model's EYES. also, INFLATE them by 0.002 (the head's already been inflated, my b)

and then you HIDE them INSIDE THE SKULL of your MODEL and make sure they are PROPERLY ORGANISED in the OUTLINER panel

and then you go back to your ANIMATE tab and you WIDEN THE TIME GAP between the ZERO-VALUE and the NUMBER-VALUE KEYFRAMES (the inhale and exhale keyframes) in the TIMELINE panel. and then you COPY+PASTE the KEYFRAMES several times (idk i did it until it was like 10 secs long).

the ANIMATION should END with the ZERO-VALUE (exhale) KEYFRAME.

(NB: the smaller your creature, the shorter the time gap between keyframes should be. smaller animals breathe faster and their heart beats quicker. larger animals should be slower and more lumbering).

and then you pick a RANDOM POINT in this loop (i prefer to do near the end) and create NEW KEYFRAMES for BOTH EYE BONES with VALUES of ZERO. and then you add a NEW KEYFRAME 0.1 SECOND after that, and you MOVE the EYE BONES so that they OVERLAP with the edge of the HEAD BONE where you have PAINTED the eyes.

then, about 0.3 seconds after that, you COPY the KEYFRAMES, but MIRROR the ORDER. so it should look like THIS:

and then you go to FILE and click SAVE PROJECT.

Then you, too, can SAVOUR your very own LIVING, BREATHING (not really) CREATURE!!!!!

Ja’Marr can’t decide if his shirt makes him look like he’s trying too hard or like he doesn’t care enough, which might be the same thing, depending on the light—he’s got it halfway on, sleeves bunched around his elbows, collar still open, standing in front of the mirror with his mouth drawn tight like he’s bracing for something, not sure what, maybe the night, maybe the silence, maybe the person he’s supposed to meet, maybe just the way his own reflection keeps looking at him like you really doing this again?

He is. He is doing this again.

Doesn’t know why he is, not really—dating, whatever that word’s supposed to mean anymore, whatever it’s turned into after months of app-hopping and dry bios and dinner tables that feel more like interviews than anything else. He gave Bumble a shot and it felt like a job fair.

Tinder was worse—swipe, match, small talk, weird guy with no bedsheets, unmatch. The last three were like that. No rhythm. No follow-up. The sex from Hinge was not bad, though—messy and warm and nothing he’d write home about, but good—the girl was sweet, too, soft-spoken, laughed with her whole face—but even that ended in a slow ghosting and a saved contact he won’t delete because it doesn’t take up that much space.

But this time it’s Curio ❤️‍🔥— a new date app that promises to do it all for you, no swiping, no faces, just a short quiz, a time slot, and a match. Going in blind.

He tugs the sleeves down and then up again and then leaves them pushed up like he didn’t just spend three full minutes debating it, pulls the chain out from under the collar, watches the gold flash once in the mirror and decides to keep it, touches the ring on his index finger like it needs adjusting, even though it doesn’t.

It’s not nerves, he tells himself, not really—it’s just habit, the way he is before something new, even if it’s not new, even if it’s just another face and another conversation and another maybe.

A guy can hope, right?

The sky’s peach-purple outside when he locks the door behind him, and he walks slow to the car, like if he takes his time the nerves will go somewhere else, like if he breathes deep enough he’ll stop thinking about eyes he hasn’t seen yet and the maybe of something better than almost.

No music. It feels like he’d break something if he played any. Too much pressure on the silence, too much electricity in the car like the air right before lightning, and if he hums along to anything it might unravel the thread that’s holding him steady.

Curio said the venue was small—Color Theory, but it’s kinda cute, he has to admit, even before he pulls up, even before he sees the glow of soft pink neon bleeding into the blue-hour sky like a blush on the glass, even before the chalkboard outside catches his eyes with its loopy-ass handwriting and the worst kind of event name—

PAINT ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT a Curio experience | 7:30PM | private tabled seating only

—and he huffs a laugh, more through his nose than his mouth, but it still counts, because it’s a little insufferable but also kind of good, kind of sweet, and the dumb little tagline rolls around his head like a marble.

Parking’s easy, the lot mostly empty except for a neat row of cars that definitely belong to people already inside, couples probably, or people who showed up thirty minutes early to impress their matches, to act like they’re not nervous—two-door date-night rentals and a dented SUV with a flower decal blooming wild across the back window, petals half-peeled from rain.

Ja’Marr kills the engine and just sits there, hands resting on the wheel like maybe he needs to hold on, like the car might tip into something if he lets go. His stomach feels weird—tight, not empty exactly, but waiting, like it’s trying to curl up and stretch out at the same time.

There’s something about walking into a date blind. Like actually blind. It's funny on a Netflix show, but not so much in real life. No pictures. No voice memos. No look at what you’re walking into. Just a username and a time and a place and this slow pull toward something you can’t imagine because the imagining’s not allowed, because if you picture it wrong, it ruins it, and if you picture it right, it ruins you.

He doesn’t know what they’ll look like. Doesn’t know what they’ll say. Doesn’t know if they’ll talk too much or not at all, if they’ll stare or fidget or smile with their teeth or just their eyes. Doesn’t know if they’ll see him—not the helmet, not the camera face, not the practiced charm, but him, the stuff underneath, the quiet parts he doesn’t give away easy.

He exhales, jaw tight, taps the screen once. Curio opens smooth, blue background and rose-gold highlights, soft glow like it’s winking at him. Smug-ass app.

Activate ProxiMode?

The screen pulses gently under his thumb. He taps.

Outside the car, the gravel shifts when he steps out, little crunches under his boots like the world’s cracking on purpose just to hear itself. The air smells like lemon balm and wine, faint trails of paint, something faintly spicy on someone else’s skin drifting past when the door opens.

When he walks into Color Theory, it’s like walking into a dream—warm lights strung from copper fixtures, canvases set up like altars at every table, paint trays already laid out with colors in soft pastels and bold tones, wine in silver buckets catching reflections from candlelight, a faint voice humming from the speakers—a love song.

There’s a woman at the host stand. She smiles without really looking up.

“You’re Curio, right?” she asks, and he nods once. “Back left. You’ll see it. Supplies’ll come to you in a minute.”

He nods, says thank you. Lets himself walk slow through the space, skimming past tables with people already halfway into something—painted faces, big laughs, soft touches, hands already sticky with color, little clusters of joy like pollen in the air.

His table’s small. Tucked into the corner, near a curtained window. Two easels. Two aprons. One flickering tea light in a shallow bowl of glass pebbles.

It's warm and kind of hushed, like something cupped in both hands, like it might get spooked and flutter away if anyone says the wrong thing too loud, and Ja’Marr’s just sitting in it, trying not to shift too much in the shitty plastic seat that creaks when he breathes too deep.

There’s a couple across from him whose laughter keeps catching on the corners of his thoughts—giddy and big, like they’ve already decided they’re going home together, or maybe they already live together, and this is their attempt at cute, at spark, at date night; and there’s a girl in pink with her chin tucked into her shoulder, sketching instead of painting, and she keeps licking her bottom lip like she’s thinking hard, and there are at least three empty seats that could belong to anyone, all of them possibilities, all of them stories he hasn’t been told yet.

He’s not watching the door. (He is.) He’s not nervous. (He absolutely is.)

Ja'Marr doesn’t look up when the bell over the door rings because it’s the third or fourth time and everyone who’s come in so far has gone somewhere else, found their seat, kissed their date on the cheek or waved awkward or laughed a little too loud and none of them have been for him.

So he doesn’t flinch this time either, doesn’t turn, just lets the soft clatter of the door close in the background and stares straight ahead at the flickering tea light in its little glass bowl like it’s got answers, like it’s gonna tell him what to say if they’re hot or what to do if they’re not or what to feel if this ends like all the others—nicely, politely, with a half-hug and nothing else.

But then he hears it—low laugh, one of those dumb little half-embarrassed hehs like someone just tripped over their own feet or forgot their wallet or walked into a date—and then the voice, quiet and surprised and all too familiar, muttering something and that’s when he feels it in his chest, just a little pull, a tightening, a something—

He glances toward the door. Just a glance.

Joe is standing just inside the door looking entirely like himself and somehow completely new, hair a little messy in that on-purpose way that’s not really on-purpose at all, falling in soft little waves across his forehead in the exact way that makes people want to push it back for him.

A pale blue shirt tucked into black jeans like someone made him dress nice and he half-listened, sleeves rolled up sloppy like he got hot in the car or didn’t know what to do with his hands, and on his wrist—of course—the silver bracelet, the one Ja’Marr gave him a while ago in July when they were tipsy on bourbon and late-night barbecue and it wasn’t meant to mean anything but still kind of did, simple chain with a clasp Joe couldn’t figure out so Ja’Marr had to do it for him, and he wore it ever since like it wasn’t a thing.

Ja’Marr doesn’t breathe for a second. Joe doesn’t even use dating apps.

He looks at the tables, at the maybe-matches, at the solo stragglers still sipping nervously at half-full wine glasses, still waiting for their glowy-screen cue, and he tells himself Joe could be here for any of them, could be about to sit with someone in a sundress or a flannel or that guy with the hand tattoos, could be anyone but him—

But then Ja’Marr’s phone lights up again, a soft little vibration against his thigh, and when he flips it over the screen pulses once, then again, and then it glows steady—white ring full and bright like a held breath.

Proximity match: found

Of course. Of fucking course.

What are the odds—no, seriously, what are the actual odds—how many people in Cincinnati, how many late-night swipers, how many profiles, and this app, in all its smug algorithmic wisdom, decides this is the one, decides he needs to sit across from Joe fucking Burrow with paint and wine on the table and god knows what else hanging in the air.

Ja’Marr looks up again and Joe’s seen him now—eyes locking across the room, confusion blooming first, then recognition, then something like amusement breaking lazy and slow over his face, that little lopsided smile that makes his whole mouth look unfair, like he’s pleased with himself even when he’s not doing anything, and Ja’Marr could throw a brush at him, honestly.

He doesn’t.

They're walking out into the kind of night that feels like it shouldn’t be real, warm and quiet and soft around the edges like it’s been dipped in candlelight, air still holding the smell of paint and wine and something green in bloom and Ja’Marr’s not looking at Joe exactly, not on purpose, but he’s aware of him in that way he always is.

Like gravity or muscle memory, like he’s a fixture now, just part of the atmosphere around him, and their footsteps are a little out of sync but still close enough that it feels like something is happening even if neither of them says it out loud.

Even if Ja’Marr’s trying real hard to keep his face neutral and his mouth shut, trying not to feel too much or notice too much like how Joe’s still got paint on his knuckles or how his laugh earlier—low and scratchy from the wine—had lodged somewhere in Ja’Marr’s chest like a pin.

The parking lot’s mostly empty, lights overhead flickering slightly like they’re tired too, and there’s this beat of silence that stretches too long and not long enough, like they’re both waiting for something to happen or to be said. Ja’Marr’s phone buzzes with some notification from the app that he ignores completely because the only thing that matters right now is the way Joe keeps glancing over at him like he’s thinking about something he maybe shouldn’t say.

He keeps his gaze forward until Joe says, low and almost like a joke, “You still got paint on your face,” and Ja’Marr says “Yeah?” without much thought, not stopping, just sort of smirking without looking over, and then Joe does it—lifts his hand, slow, tentative like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, and Ja’Marr lets him.

Which surprises even him a little, and Joe’s fingers are warm and careful when they brush against his cheekbone, just a soft swipe with his thumb, wiping the blue smudge off but also maybe like he’s just touching him because he wants to, because he can.

Ja’Marr goes very still, aware of the space between them shrinking, of how Joe is suddenly right there, closer than he’s supposed to be, and the heat off his body is real and steady and stupidly distracting.

Joe’s still touching him even though the paint’s been gone for a second now, and they’re just—standing there, eyes on each other, too quiet, too much, the kind of quiet that has teeth in it, and Ja’Marr feels like he might laugh or kiss him or say something dumb like what now just to break it, just to make it less charged, but then Joe shifts like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s considering it, like he’s gonna lean in just a little more and Ja’Marr swears for one second he thinks it’s happening, really happening, their mouths maybe four inches apart and closing, not fast, not desperate, just this slow inevitable thing pulling at both of them—

And then someone slams a car door across the lot, sharp and loud and rude as hell, and Joe jumps a little like he forgot the rest of the world existed and pulls back a step, not far but far enough to kill it, whatever it was, whatever was about to happen, and Ja’Marr laughs once, breathy and too light, not because it’s funny but because it’s better than saying fuck out loud.

Joe’s rubbing the back of his neck now and looking down like maybe he’s disappointed or maybe just embarrassed or maybe both, and Ja’Marr’s still standing there with his hands in his pockets and his face still a little too warm and his pulse still a little too fast, and they just—stand, for a second, in the quiet.

“So,” Joe says, voice rough again like he needs to clear his throat but doesn’t, “this was… not what I thought tonight was gonna be.”

“Uh huh,” Ja’Marr says, slow, “me either.”

Joe looks at him again, really looks, and it’s soft in a way that Ja’Marr can’t hold for long so he glances away and nods toward their cars like yeah, guess this is where it ends, guess this is it.

And Joe goes, “I’ll see you,” not even a question, not a statement either, just something sort of in between, and Ja’Marr nods again and says “Yeah” like that’s all there is to say and Joe’s already unlocking his car, stepping back, still watching him, and Ja’Marr turns and opens his own door, slides in slow, doesn’t start the engine right away, just sits there a second longer, lets it settle around him, whatever the hell that was.

Lets it live in the space between goodbye and maybe.