The studio felt different the next morning—warmer, heavier. As if the air itself remembered. Amelia stood in front of the canvas, brush poised, but her hand didn't move.
Daniel Wolfe was late.
Not by much—just ten minutes—but enough for her thoughts to spiral. Enough for her to question why she cared. He was a model, a subject, a passing face in a hundred renderings. But no other subject had ever made her fingers shake. No one else had left their absence lingering in the air like a perfume.
When the door finally creaked open, her heart betrayed her—skipped once, then pounded harder.
He stepped inside with a soft, confident stride, wearing a dark T-shirt that clung to his torso and jeans that sat just a little too low on his hips. His hair was damp, like he'd just come from the shower. Clean, fresh, impossibly close.
"Morning," he said, voice low, easy.
"You're late," she replied, not looking at him.
He shrugged out of his shirt without apology. "You start painting. I'll start stripping. Fair?"
She hated the smirk tugging at her lips. "Fair."
This time, there was no hesitation as he stepped onto the platform and let the jeans fall. No shame in his stance. No modesty in the way he took his place.
But Amelia was different. She wasn't ready. Not for the way her body remembered the heat of his skin. Not for the pulse between her legs when she glanced up and saw him there—bare, bold, his.
She turned away, mixing a deeper red.
"Do you always hold your breath when you paint?" he asked softly.
Her brush paused. "Do I?"
"You haven't exhaled since I walked in."
She let the breath out in one long, quiet sigh. "You're not the first nude I've painted."
"No," he agreed, "but I might be the first who looks back."
That made her glance up.
His eyes met hers, unblinking, steady. And she felt it again—that pull. As if he could strip her with nothing but a look. Not just her clothes, but her layers. Her rules. Her solitude.
"You're not here to look at me," she said, throat dry. "You're here to be seen."
Daniel's smile faded, replaced by something quieter. "Maybe I'm here to see something, too."
She dipped the brush again. Forced her hand to move. Each stroke brought her closer to him—his likeness, yes, but also his presence. She captured the hollow beneath his collarbone, the line of his thigh, the subtle dip of his navel.
Then, without thinking, she stepped off the platform and moved closer. Too close.
"Hold still," she murmured, raising her hand.
But this time, she didn't touch him with a brush.
Her fingers hovered near his chest, inches from his skin, trembling.
Daniel didn't flinch. "Is this part of the process?"
"I don't know," she whispered.
Then her fingertips touched his shoulder—light as a whisper. A pulse jumped beneath the skin. She let her hand trail down, mapping the slope of his bicep, the inside of his arm, until it reached his wrist.
Still, he didn't move.
He only watched her. Silent. Waiting.
She should have stopped. Should have turned away.
But instead, her hand slid back up—this time, slower. She felt his breath hitch. Hers did too.
When her eyes finally met his again, the room had changed. No longer a studio. No longer a session.
Now it was a confession.
"I can't paint you like this," she said, voice raw.
"Why not?"
"Because this isn't just a body anymore. It's... you."
He stepped down from the platform. Walked toward her without breaking eye contact.
And when he reached her, so close her brush fell from her hand, he leaned in—not to kiss her, not yet—but to speak, his breath grazing her jaw.
"Then stop painting," he said, "and feel."
But he didn't touch her. He left her standing there—heart racing, body aching, mouth parted.
The door clicked softly behind him.
And Amelia stood in the echo of him, breathless, the craving now fully awake.