The light was colder the next morning.
Not grey, not dark—just sharp, like something had shifted in the air while they slept. Amelia sat on the edge of the studio couch, her knees tucked to her chest, Daniel's shirt draped over her bare shoulders. The fabric still held his scent, grounding her, even as her thoughts spun.
Daniel stood by the window, his back to her, bare from the waist up. He was silent, watching the world beyond the glass like he was waiting for it to turn against them.
She rose and walked to him, the wood floor cool beneath her feet. When she touched his back, she felt the tension beneath his skin—the quiet war he rarely let show.
"What is it?" she asked.
He didn't answer at first. Then: "Your gallery called."
That pulled her breath tight. "What?"
"They left a message. I saw your phone blinking. I didn't listen—I swear."
Amelia exhaled slowly. "They must be calling about the submission deadline."
Daniel turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Will you show the painting?"
She hesitated.
The portrait. His portrait. It was unlike anything she had ever created—too raw, too intimate. Too much them. To put it on a gallery wall would be to undress them both, publicly.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "It's not just art anymore. It's… us."
Daniel nodded, but something flickered behind his eyes. A retreat. A warning.
"I don't want to be a secret," he said, voice low.
"You're not," she whispered, reaching for him. "Not to me."
But before her hand could find his, her phone buzzed again—persistent, loud, insistent.
The moment shattered.
He stepped away, picking up his shirt from the arm of the couch. "You should answer it."
"Daniel…"
He looked at her, that carefully guarded mask slipping into place. "This… whatever this is—it doesn't survive in shadows, Amelia. It has to live out loud, or not at all."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked behind him, far too quietly for how loudly it echoed inside her.
Amelia stared at the painting—his eyes staring back at her from the canvas, filled with the same ache she felt now inside her chest.
The world wanted her artist self. The galleries wanted her technique. But Daniel… he had wanted her—unfiltered, unpolished, undone.
The question now was: could she be brave enough to give it?
The phone buzzed again, rattling against the table like a ticking clock.
She silenced it.
Then walked to the canvas, picked up her brush—and for the first time in weeks, added a stroke.
Not for the gallery.
Not for anyone else.
But for him.