The studio was quiet that night—too quiet. Amelia sat alone, her fingers stained with dried paint, though the canvas before her remained untouched. Her brushes lay scattered on the floor like discarded weapons after a battle she hadn't wanted to fight.
She hadn't spoken to Daniel since that morning.
The memory of his face when she'd said You lost me anyway haunted her more than the photos Julian had shown. She knew pain. She knew what it meant to lose trust. But what she didn't know—what she was still terrified to admit—was whether she wanted him to fight to get it back.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows like a quiet question.
She picked up one of the brushes, dipped it into the darkest blue she could find, and let it sweep across the canvas. It was wild. Uncontrolled. Not her usual precision, not a study of form—but emotion. Grief. Fury. Love.
She painted until her arms ached and her hands shook.
She didn't hear the door until it opened.
Daniel stood in the doorway, drenched from the rain. His shirt clung to his body, but he didn't seem to notice. He looked like a man who had walked through a storm and still wasn't sure if he deserved shelter.
"I thought you might be here," he said quietly.
Amelia didn't stop painting. "You shouldn't be."
"I know." A pause. "But I had to try."
She kept her back to him, the canvas between them. "I can't keep patching over lies with passion."
He stepped closer, cautiously. "It wasn't just a contract. It was a promise I made before I even met you. I didn't break it for you—but I should have told you. I wanted to."
"Then why didn't you?"
His voice cracked. "Because I wanted to be the man you saw when you looked at me. And I was terrified you'd see someone else if I told you the truth."
She turned, eyes shining with hurt. "But the truth was already in your silence. That's what killed me."
Daniel moved carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you. Not for a second. I didn't just walk into your studio, Amelia—I walked into you. And I don't know who I am without this… without us."
The anger in her trembled under the weight of his vulnerability.
"I'm not asking you to forget what I did," he said. "But I'm asking you to remember who we are when we're honest."
Her breath caught. His words cracked something open inside her—a longing to believe, a fear of being broken again.
Slowly, she stepped aside and revealed the canvas she'd been working on.
It was abstract. Chaotic. Raw. A storm of color and shadow. But at its center, almost buried in the madness, was a silhouette.
His.
Daniel stared at it in silence, swallowing hard. "Is that how you see me now?"
She nodded. "Not who you were. Not who you pretend to be. Just… who you are. Lost. Beautiful. Unfinished."
He stepped forward and took her paint-stained hand in his.
"Then let me finish it with you," he whispered.
She didn't answer right away.
But she didn't pull away.
And for now, that was enough.
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