The morning after Daniel returned was thick with quiet.
Not silence—but something more fragile. As if the air had been threaded with words neither of them dared speak just yet. Amelia awoke to the sound of his breathing beside her, steady, warm, anchoring. He slept with one arm draped over her hip, his face tucked into the pillow like he was hiding from daylight.
She didn't move.
There was a certain holiness in the way he trusted her enough to sleep like this—unguarded, barefoot in his vulnerability. His skin against hers still hummed from the night before. Not just from the way he touched her, but the way he held her—like he wasn't just reaching for pleasure, but something deeper. A tether.
Amelia traced a lazy finger down his spine. He stirred, a soft sound escaping his lips, half-asleep and wholly hers. For a moment, she let herself imagine a version of life where this was daily—his warmth in her bed, her paint beneath her nails, the mess of their lives tangled into something beautiful.
But reality wasn't so kind.
He shifted and opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep. "You're staring."
She smiled. "I'm painting. In my head."
"Do I look tragic enough to be your muse again?"
She leaned in, kissed his shoulder. "You always do."
Daniel rolled onto his back, folding his arms behind his head. "Do you think it's dangerous?" he asked, voice barely audible. "Letting someone in too far?"
She followed the line of his jaw with her gaze. "Yes," she whispered. "But I think it's worse not to."
He turned toward her slowly. "You scare me."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because I want things I never used to want. Permanence. Touch. A name that means something when you say it."
Her breath caught, not because of the words, but because of how softly they landed. Not a confession. A surrender.
She reached for his hand, their fingers interlocking like threads woven tight.
"Then stay," she said. "Not as a model. Not as some beautiful man passing through. Stay as you."
His lips twitched into something between a smile and a plea. "What if I ruin this?"
Amelia pressed her forehead to his. "Then ruin me. But do it honestly."
He pulled her closer.
And when they moved together, it wasn't fire—it was the slow burn of two souls learning to rest in each other. Their bodies spoke in breaths and grazes, in moans muffled against skin, in the sacred rhythm of being known.
There was no rush now.
Just the unfolding.
Layer by layer.
Frame by frame.
Until there was nothing between them but truth.