Rain whispered against the windows the next morning—soft, steady, like a secret being confessed by the sky. The studio smelled of paint and damp wood, but also of him—a subtle reminder that Daniel hadn't left the space so much as lingered within it, like a note sustained in the air after a piano key is lifted.
Amelia stood at the easel, her brush poised but unmoving. The portrait was nearly finished now. Daniel's likeness looked back at her with haunting intimacy, eyes shaded in a depth she hadn't known she was capable of painting. Every stroke had become an echo of their hours together—his stillness, his silences, his subtle unraveling.
Behind her, she heard the door open. She didn't turn. She didn't need to.
"You came back," she said softly.
"I never left," Daniel replied.
She turned then. He was barefoot, rain-damp curls clinging to his forehead, white shirt slightly open at the chest. His presence filled the room—quiet, unassuming, yet impossible to ignore. Like gravity.
He moved closer. Each step he took seemed to draw the air tighter between them. When he finally stopped, mere inches away, she tilted her face up to him. Her breath caught, but she didn't retreat.
"What do you want, Daniel?" she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, his hand rose to her face, fingers brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with aching tenderness. Then the pad of his thumb traced her cheekbone, as if memorizing her.
"I want to know what you taste like when you're not holding back," he said at last, his voice low, rough, honest.
Her heart skipped. The heat between them was no longer a flicker—it was a storm barely restrained behind the fragile glass of self-control.
Amelia reached for his shirt, slowly, watching his eyes as her fingers undid the next button, then the next. "Then stop waiting."
He pulled her to him with a groan that was almost a sigh, like he'd been holding back for far too long. His lips met hers, not in a rush, but with reverence—as if the kiss itself was a language only the two of them could speak.
Her hands roamed his chest, exploring the sculpted warmth she had only painted until now. His mouth moved from her lips to her neck, each kiss a confession, each sigh a prayer. When his hands slid beneath the hem of her blouse, her breath hitched, not from fear—but from finally letting herself want.
They moved as if guided by something ancient and intuitive. No performance. No pretenses. Just skin to skin, breath to breath, every moment unfolding like brushstrokes on a living canvas.
When they collapsed onto the studio couch, tangled in rain-slick limbs and gasping laughter, there was no shame in the silence that followed. Only the sound of rain. And hearts—beating, trusting, exposed.
Later, her fingers danced over his chest, tracing lazy lines.
"You scare me," she whispered.
Daniel turned his head, meeting her eyes. "Why?"
"Because with you… I don't want to hide anymore."
His fingers found hers and laced them together. "Then don't. Let them see the real you, Amelia. The one who feels. The one who burns."
She closed her eyes, lips brushing his shoulder. The one who craves.