The morning after was quiet.
Not tense. Not heavy. Just full—of meaning, of breath, of something unspoken between them that no longer needed to be defined.
Daniel stirred before Amelia, the sunlight draping his bare shoulders like silk. He watched her sleep for a while, memorizing her calm, her softness. He'd never seen someone choose rest the way she did now. Like it was rebellion. Like it was earned.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He almost didn't answer. But habit won.
Marco, his old agent.
The message was brief. Ruthless.
> Call me. Dior wants you. Front of campaign. Global. Two months in Paris. You disappear now, you burn bridges forever.
Daniel stared at the screen, his pulse quiet but insistent.
He hadn't worked a campaign in nearly a year. Had told himself he was done with being seen without being understood. But Dior was... Dior. A career-altering opportunity. Money. Legacy. Visibility.
And yet, all he could think about was Amelia.
Her paint-splattered hands.
Her whisper in the dark.
You don't have to be art to be loved.
When Amelia finally woke, her voice was husky. "Everything okay?"
Daniel slipped the phone into his pocket. "Yeah. Just Marco."
She sat up slowly. "Work?"
"An offer," he said. "A big one."
Silence stretched, but it wasn't mistrust. It was the weight of unspoken choices.
"Do you want it?" she asked, steady.
He didn't answer right away. "I don't know."
Her hand reached for his. "Then figure that out first. Not for me. Not to prove something. Just for you."
Daniel felt the sharp sting of tears behind his eyes, but blinked them back.
It wasn't that he didn't want Paris.
It's that he wasn't sure he wanted to lose this to have it.
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