The morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ava's Paris apartment was soft and golden, catching in the flecks of dried paint scattered across her floor. She was half-awake, sipping coffee in an oversized shirt, when a familiar knock echoed through the quiet.
Her heart stopped.
It couldn't be.
She opened the door — and there he was.
Sebastian.
He stood in the hallway, a suitcase beside him, his dark suit immaculate despite the overnight flight. His eyes met hers with that quiet, piercing intensity that once made her forget how to breathe.
"Ava," he said softly. "I told you I'd come."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The city hummed faintly beyond the walls, but inside, time seemed to hold still.
She exhaled, the breath shaky. "You look… tired."
He smiled faintly. "You look like Paris agrees with you."
She stepped aside, letting him in. His presence filled the space — his cologne, his quiet confidence, the sheer weight of him. She realized she'd imagined this moment a hundred times, but nothing could have prepared her for how real it felt.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," she said, her voice softer than she intended.
"I wasn't sure I could," he admitted. "Things at the company have been… volatile. But I couldn't stay away anymore."
She studied him — the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "You left a mess behind for me?"
"For us," he corrected.
The word lingered, fragile and powerful.
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They moved through her studio, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. He paused before one of her recent paintings — the one she'd done after their last phone call.
"This is new," he murmured.
"It's called What Remains."
He looked at it for a long time — the chaotic strokes of black and crimson, the faint outline of two figures reaching for each other through storm-colored light. "It's beautiful," he said finally. "And sad."
"It's honest," she replied.
Their eyes met again. He looked at her as if the months apart had only sharpened everything — her voice, her laugh, the paint on her hands. He reached out, brushing his thumb over a streak of color on her wrist.
"You've been working hard," he said quietly.
"Painting keeps me sane."
"And me?"
Her breath hitched. "You're the reason I paint."
For a heartbeat, the world stilled — and then he closed the distance.
His lips brushed hers, tentative at first, as though asking for permission. But when she melted into him, when her hands found his shirt and clutched the fabric, the kiss deepened — hungry, desperate, and laced with all the words they hadn't said.
He tasted like jet lag and longing. She tasted like paint and rain.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. "God, I missed you," he whispered.
"Then why does it still feel like you're a thousand miles away?"
He drew back, the question cutting deeper than she knew. "Because I'm not good at standing still, Ava. I never was."
"Then maybe that's what scares me," she said.
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Later, they walked through the Jardin des Tuileries, Paris glowing beneath the soft wash of afternoon light. Ava wore a pale dress; Sebastian had loosened his tie, his hand brushing hers occasionally as they walked.
People moved around them — tourists, lovers, artists sketching by fountains — yet the world seemed to narrow to the space between them.
"I saw Étienne's interview," Sebastian said finally, breaking the silence.
Ava's step faltered. "Of course you did."
"He seems… fond of you."
"He's a critic. He's supposed to be."
Sebastian's mouth tightened. "That's not what it looked like."
She turned to him, exasperation flickering in her eyes. "You fly across the channel just to question me about another man?"
"I'm not questioning," he said, though his tone betrayed him. "I'm trying to understand if I still have a place in your life."
Her laugh was soft, bitter. "You left that place empty, Sebastian. I just learned not to stare at it too long."
He stopped walking, catching her wrist. "Don't say that."
"Then don't make me feel it."
For a moment, they stood there, the city moving around them while they stood frozen in a storm of their own making.
Finally, he let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to fight."
"Then why did you come?"
He met her gaze, raw and unguarded. "Because I love you, and I don't know how not to."
Her throat tightened. "Love isn't enough if we keep living in two different worlds."
"Then I'll change mine," he said simply.
Ava searched his face, trying to believe him. "You can't just walk away from your empire, Sebastian. That's not who you are."
"Maybe it's who I want to be — if it means being with you."
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They ended the night on her balcony, overlooking the glowing rooftops of Paris. The air was cool; she wrapped herself in a blanket, and he stood behind her, his arms sliding around her waist.
"You think we can make it work?" she asked quietly.
He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I think we already are — just badly."
That made her laugh softly, but her eyes shimmered. "I don't want us to break each other."
"Then we learn how not to," he murmured. "One day at a time."
The city stretched before them, endless and beautiful. She leaned into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm — steady, grounding.
For the first time in months, she allowed herself to breathe.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the warmth and quiet, a question lingered — what would he sacrifice for love? And what would she lose in return?
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