Elijah was alone in the studio when she arrived.
The place smelled like turpentine and citrus — bitter and warm. A single light above him caught the dried paint under his fingernails. He looked tired. Raw.
He didn't look up when she entered.
He didn't need to.
"I saw the painting," Isabelle said.
Still, he didn't turn. "I left it for you. Not for the gallery."
"I know. But I hung it anyway."
Finally, he looked at her.
His eyes were dark, unreadable. But there was tension in his jaw — not anger. Something more dangerous. Restraint.
"You always liked playing with fire," he said.
She stepped closer. "Only when I knew it would burn slowly."
---
Elijah didn't speak again.
He didn't need to.
Because she was already closing the distance between them.
He let her come.
Let her slide her fingers into his shirt. Let her breathe against his neck. Let her undo him — not with desperation, but with decision.
"You saw me," she whispered. "The parts no one dared to name."
He nodded once. "You showed me."
"And what did you want from it?"
His voice was a rasp. "Everything."
---
When their lips met, it wasn't gentle.
It was five years of denial, of polite laughter, of stolen glances. It was the echo of brushes scraping canvas, of skin remembered in paint, of need.
He pressed her against the wooden wall, his hands braced on either side of her face — not to trap her, but to hold himself back.
Her fingers curled into his hair.
"Elijah," she gasped.
"Yes?"
"Don't be careful with me."
And just like that, the wall disappeared.
---
He lifted her onto the counter, his mouth claiming her with a hunger that had no shame. Her blouse came off easily, like it had been waiting for this moment.
His mouth found her collarbone, then lower.
She arched into him.
"I painted this," he murmured, dragging his tongue across her ribs. "Right here. From memory."
She whimpered. "Did it look like this?"
"No." His teeth grazed her skin. "You feel better than art."
---
He took his time.
She demanded nothing less.
When he entered her, it was with the precision of a man who had imagined this a hundred times but waited until it was real.
Her body welcomed him.
Owned him.
Every thrust was deliberate.
Every kiss a confession.
Every sound she made — his masterpiece.
---
Later, breathless and slick with sweat, they lay tangled on the studio floor.
The rain had started outside.
She traced circles on his chest.
He watched the ceiling.
Finally, she said, "This wasn't a mistake."
"No," he agreed. "It was inevitable."
"But I still belong to myself."
Elijah smiled — a slow, wrecked thing.
"That's why I want you," he said. "Because no one owns you now. Not even me."
---
Silence settled.
Not awkward.
Just true.
She turned to him, fingers brushing his jaw.
"You'll paint me again?"
He chuckled. "I never stopped."