The rain had stopped, but the sky still hung low—heavy with the kind of grey that turned the city into a muted painting. Amelia stood by the window of her studio, watching the condensation bead along the glass. Her fingertips hovered over the sill, twitching with the urge to draw, to translate the aching stillness in her chest into something she could control.
She hadn't heard from Daniel since the night everything nearly unraveled.
No texts.
No apologies.
No promises.
Just silence. And yet… she could still feel him in her skin.
The door creaked open behind her. She didn't turn—she didn't need to. The energy shifted like a slow inhale, charged and uncertain. His presence had always been more than visual—it was tactile, something she felt along the nape of her neck and beneath her ribs.
"Daniel," she said quietly, not a greeting, more like a release.
"I shouldn't have left like that," his voice rasped—exhausted, hoarse, and sincere.
She turned, arms wrapped tightly around herself. His eyes were shadowed, lips parted slightly like he was about to say something but couldn't find the right words.
She didn't ask where he'd been. Not yet.
Instead, she said, "You made it feel like I was wrong to want more."
His expression fractured. "No. I—God, Amelia. I was terrified of how much you saw in me. How much I needed you to."
Her arms dropped. The air between them pulsed.
"You think I wasn't terrified too?" she asked, her voice cracking just enough to betray how close she was to breaking. "I let you into everything—my art, my body, my mind. And then you disappeared."
Daniel stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know how to stay without becoming something I didn't recognize. I've only ever been what people wanted me to be—until you. With you, I was real… and I didn't know how to live in that without losing control."
She took a trembling breath, closing the space between them. "Then maybe losing control isn't the worst thing."
Their foreheads touched. He smelled like rain and regret. His hands found her waist, trembling slightly.
"I don't know how to be what you need," he murmured.
Amelia slid her fingers along his jaw, grounding him. "Then don't be what I need. Be who you are. Let me see that."
A pause stretched, then broke as he pulled her into him with a quiet desperation. Their lips met—slow, almost reverent. Not hunger. Not lust. Longing.
There was no fire this time, no frenzy.
Just the unbearable softness of two people trying not to fall apart in each other's arms.
When they finally pulled back, his voice was raw.
"Will you paint me again?"
She nodded, brushing her thumb along his cheek. "Only if you let me see all of you. No more shadows."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Daniel didn't flinch.