Sebastian avoided the studio for three days.
Three days of silence, of focus he didn't really have. Meetings blurred together, contracts were signed without thought. Every word spoken to him felt distant — hollow.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Ava, standing beneath the soft light of her studio, her skin painted gold by lamplight, her eyes fierce and tender all at once.
He'd spent years building walls so high no one could reach him. Yet with a glance, she'd found the cracks.
By the fourth evening, he couldn't stand it anymore.
When he arrived at the building, the corridors were quiet. Most of the staff had long gone home. Her studio door was slightly open, light spilling into the hall like a secret he wasn't supposed to see.
He pushed the door wider.
Ava was standing by the mural, barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was painting with slow, deliberate strokes, her lips parted in concentration. She didn't notice him at first, and for a moment, he just watched — the soft movement of her wrist, the rhythm of her breathing.
"You shouldn't keep working so late," he said finally, his voice low.
She jumped slightly, turning toward him. "You shouldn't sneak up on people."
He smiled faintly. "Old habit."
Ava set her brush down and crossed her arms. "What are you doing here, Sebastian?"
He hesitated. The truth sounded too dangerous, too bare. "I wanted to see the progress."
"Liar," she said softly. "You've been avoiding me."
He said nothing.
"You think distance will fix it?" she pressed. "That if you ignore what's between us, it'll disappear?"
Her tone wasn't angry — it was quiet, wounded, almost daring him to contradict her.
He took a slow step forward. "Ava, you don't understand what you're asking for."
"Then explain it to me."
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not the kind of man you think I am. I don't… lose control. Ever."
"Then why are you here?"
Her question sliced through him like a whisper of truth.
He closed the distance between them. "Because you make me forget how to stay in control."
The air between them thickened instantly — heavy with all the things left unsaid. Her pulse quickened, and she stepped back instinctively until her shoulders brushed the cool wall. He followed, stopping inches away.
"Every time I see you," he said, his voice unsteady, "I tell myself to walk away. And every time, I fail."
Ava's heart pounded in her chest. "Then stop pretending you don't want this."
He shook his head. "You don't understand the cost."
"Maybe I do." Her gaze locked on his. "Maybe it's worth it."
Something in him cracked — all the restraint, the rules, the fear. He reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist, slow and trembling. The touch sent heat rippling through her. She didn't pull away.
"You shouldn't let me do this," he murmured.
"Then don't ask for permission," she whispered back.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
The storm outside had returned, lightning flashing across the glass. He leaned in just enough for her to feel his breath, warm and uneven. The world seemed to narrow — just them, the rain, and the sound of two hearts daring to collide.
Then he stopped — inches away, his hand still resting against her skin. His restraint was palpable, painful.
"If I cross this line, there's no turning back," he said hoarsely.
"Then maybe we were never meant to turn back."
He let out a slow, shaking breath. His thumb brushed against her pulse, feeling it race beneath her skin.
"I've never met anyone who makes me feel this… alive," he admitted quietly. "And it terrifies me."
Ava's eyes softened. "Maybe that's how you know it's real."
Silence. Intense. Fragile.
He stepped back, breaking the connection, his expression torn. "You deserve someone who can give you peace. Not someone who lives in chaos."
"Peace is overrated," she said with a faint smile. "I'd rather have something that feels real."
Her words hung in the air long after he turned away.
At the doorway, he paused, gripping the frame as though anchoring himself. "This—whatever this is—it can't end well."
"Then let's not think about the ending yet."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You make it sound simple."
"It is," she said softly. "You just don't want it to be."
And before he could respond, she picked up her brush and returned to her work — her movements steady, calm, deliberate. But her hands trembled slightly, betraying the storm she felt inside.
Sebastian lingered a moment longer, watching her — the woman who had become both his weakness and his truth. Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
When the echo of his footsteps faded, Ava pressed her palm against the wall where he had stood. The warmth lingered, phantom and wild.
She smiled faintly to herself, whispering into the empty room,
"I think you've already crossed the line, Sebastian Vale."
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