The days that followed were full of almosts.
Almost kisses.
Almost touches.
Almost confessions.
But none of it felt lacking—because each moment was thick with anticipation, stretched taut like a canvas before the first stroke.
Amelia found herself painting in deeper colors now—more crimson, more shadow, more light. Every piece carried the echo of his breath on her skin, the memory of his hands resting just at the edge of more.
Daniel had become her muse in more than form—he was in the emotion, in the tension of every line she drew. He hadn't posed for her again, not yet. But he didn't need to. He lived inside her imagination now, tangled in every flick of her wrist.
One evening, rain fell softly against the studio windows, misting the glass in blurred streaks. Amelia stood at the center of the room, barefoot, lost in thought. The lights were low, the only glow coming from a single floor lamp beside her easel.
Daniel entered without knocking. He never needed to.
"You paint like you're trying to hold something in," he said, stepping closer.
"I am," she replied. "But it's not working."
He looked at her—really looked. Her paint-smeared hands, the curve of her neck exposed beneath the loose collar of her shirt, the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes.
Without a word, he reached out, letting his fingers brush the dried pigment on her wrist. Then he moved behind her, slowly, letting his palms rest on her hips—not pulling, just grounding.
"I want to feel what you feel," he whispered near her ear.
She closed her eyes.
"Then touch me like you mean it."
His hands moved. Up her sides, under her shirt, fingers trembling just slightly—not from uncertainty, but reverence. She turned to face him, her hands reaching for his, guiding them, laying them over her heart.
"This is what you do to me," she said, her voice thick with need.
Daniel leaned in, lips brushing her jaw, then her cheek, then just at the edge of her mouth. His breath was warm, his presence consuming.
And when he finally kissed her—really kissed her—it wasn't careful.
It was claiming.
Their bodies pressed together, mouths devouring, hands roaming. Shirts lifted, skin met skin. The rain outside became a soundtrack to the storm unraveling inside the studio.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Because in that moment, their bodies told the story—of want, of wonder, of walls falling apart.
By the time they collapsed together on the old studio couch, breathless and tangled, the canvas remained blank across the room.
But not for long.
Because after that night, neither of them would ever paint—or touch—the same way again.