The studio smelled of turpentine and oil paint again—home. Daniel sat shirtless in the center of the room, the morning light catching the slope of his shoulder, the deep line between his collarbones. His jeans hung low on his hips, casual, careless, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at Amelia.
His gaze no longer held defiance or control. It held surrender.
She stood before her easel, brush in hand, heart pacing like it was trying to paint before her body could. She had painted him dozens of times—through desire, through ache, through memory. But this… this was different.
This was witnessing.
"How long do you want me to stay like this?" he asked softly.
"As long as it takes," she replied.
He gave a small, rueful smile. "I'm not sure I can hold still if you keep looking at me like that."
She dipped her brush into a deep, moody red. "Like what?"
"Like you're trying to find something you already own."
The words rooted into her. She didn't respond—just let the canvas take it in. Each stroke was slow, precise. But her eyes never left him for long. Every shift in his posture, every flicker of emotion was a whisper she chased with her brush.
Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like breaths.
Daniel's voice broke the stillness. "Do you ever worry that the truth of a person is too much to paint?"
She paused. "No. I only worry that I'll make it beautiful when it was meant to hurt."
His brow furrowed, not with offense, but understanding. "Like us?"
She didn't answer right away. She was painting the line of his jaw—the exact angle where strength gave way to vulnerability. "We were never meant to be simple."
He looked down, hands tightening on the sides of the stool. "Julian called me last night."
The brush stopped midair.
Amelia's voice was flat. "Why?"
"To remind me what I walked away from." A pause. "And to warn me not to break you."
She turned to him then, chest tight. "Did he threaten you?"
Daniel shook his head slowly. "No. He just… made it clear that he thinks you're too good for me."
Her throat constricted, but she held his gaze. "And what do you think?"
Daniel rose from the stool. He walked to her, the painting forgotten for now. When he stood in front of her, he cupped her face gently, reverently, like he was holding something fragile and irreplaceable.
"I think you're the only person who's ever seen me clearly," he said. "And that terrifies me more than Julian ever could."
She pressed into his palm, eyes burning. "Then don't run. Don't leave me to paint ghosts."
He kissed her—slow, deep, a vow more than a passion. She could taste everything he couldn't say. The bruises of his past, the hunger to be understood, the fear of being too much and never enough.
When they broke apart, he whispered against her lips, "Let me stay. Let me earn the right to be in your light."
And this time, when she nodded, she wasn't just agreeing.
She was choosing him.