The morning after was not golden or soft.
It was quiet.
Daniel stirred before the light touched the floorboards. He lay on his side, one arm draped over Amelia's waist, his breath a steady rhythm against the back of her neck. Her body curled naturally into his, bare skin tangled in linen, the scent of charcoal still lingering on both of them.
Neither of them had spoken when they finally made love the night before. Words would've only diminished it—what passed between them had been more than desire. It had been surrender. A letting go of everything they'd tried to contain.
Now, Amelia opened her eyes, staring at the faint sketch of his body still sitting on the easel in the corner. Unfinished. Imperfect. Real.
She turned slowly, careful not to wake him.
But his eyes were already open.
"Hey," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something more tender.
"Hey." She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Long enough to know I never want to stop."
A blush touched her cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the strange vulnerability of being seen—truly seen—and still wanted.
They lay there a moment longer, wrapped in warmth and silence. But reality, like light, had a way of creeping in.
"I need to go to the gallery today," she said softly.
Daniel stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Julian?"
She nodded. "There's press. And donors. The board's losing patience. I need to show them I haven't lost everything."
His hand found hers under the blanket. "You haven't. But be careful with him."
Amelia met his gaze. "He's not the threat anymore, Daniel."
"Maybe not to your career," Daniel said. "But he still thinks he owns a part of you."
Her heart tensed at that. Because some part of her knew it was true.
---
The gallery was too pristine.
White walls. Clean glass. Polished silence. It all felt like a performance now—like a stage she used to know how to walk. But after the fire, after Daniel, after all the ways she had let herself unravel, the air here felt thinner. Harder to breathe in.
Julian waited for her in the main office, a pressed suit framing a face more tired than usual.
"You look… different," he said, watching her walk in.
"I am," she answered simply.
A flicker passed over his face. "We lost a lot in that fire, Amelia. Including leverage with the investors."
She folded her arms. "I'm not here to salvage reputations, Julian. I'm here to rebuild what matters."
"And what matters now?" His voice held challenge, but beneath it—curiosity. Maybe even fear.
She stepped closer. "Honesty. Art that feels like it might collapse. Mess. Desire. The things I used to bury because you taught me to fear the chaos."
Julian exhaled, slowly. "So this is about him."
"No," she said. "This is about me."
He looked at her for a long, unreadable moment.
Then, finally: "If you're going to start over, you'd better make it worth the fallout."
"I plan to."
---
That night, she returned to her apartment to find Daniel in the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, cooking something that smelled like forgiveness and home.
He turned when he heard the door.
"Bad day?"
"No," she said, dropping her bag. "Necessary one."
He smiled. "Come here."
She crossed the room, sliding into his arms like she belonged there.
And maybe now, finally, she did.
---