The golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Daniel's photography studio, casting long shadows on the hardwood floor. Eleanor stood near the makeshift backdrop, dressed in a flowing crimson silk robe—her own design, half fastened, just the way Daniel liked it.
He circled her with his camera like a lion stalking prey, capturing the sway of her body, the half-lidded fire in her eyes, the soft defiance of a woman reborn.
Click.
Click.
Click.
"You're in your element," she murmured, teasing.
Daniel grinned from behind the lens. "You're the element. I'm just trying to keep up."
They both laughed, the easy kind of laughter that only comes after war—the kind that feels like oxygen.
But the laughter didn't last.
Daniel's phone vibrated on the nearby table. He checked it briefly, eyes narrowing.
"Everything okay?" Eleanor asked.
He hesitated. "It's an offer. From the Stanton Gallery. They want to feature my work in their 'Visions of Intimacy' exhibit in New York."
Her smile faltered, just slightly. "That's amazing."
"They want more than a few pieces," he added. "A whole residency. Six months."
Silence spread between them, creeping like a cold draft under a door.
Eleanor pulled the robe tighter around her.
"And you want to go?"
He set the camera down and walked toward her.
"I want this career to mean something. But I don't want to lose you chasing it."
She met his eyes, but hers were clouded with old fears.
"I've watched people choose ambition over love my whole life. I thought I escaped it. But maybe it's just the way the world works."
Daniel cupped her face gently. "I'm not choosing anything over you. I want you to be part of this."
"But you're going either way," she said softly.
He paused, his silence saying more than words ever could.
---
That night, Eleanor lay awake in bed, tracing the ceiling with her thoughts.
She remembered the way her mother always said: "Distance ruins everything. Never let love become inconvenient."
It echoed now, unwelcome.
She hated how it still haunted her.
She sat up and reached for her sketchpad, flipping through designs. But nothing settled. Every sketch felt empty.
Daniel emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, skin glistening.
"Sketching your way to sleep?" he asked.
"I'm trying."
He sat beside her. "You're angry."
"I'm afraid," she admitted. "What if six months turns into a year? What if you get used to life without me?"
Daniel tilted her chin up. "That's impossible."
But doubt, once planted, never stops growing without effort.
---
Two days later, she met with her team at the boutique. Her assistant, Lila, chattered about upcoming fashion week plans, but Eleanor could barely focus.
Her eyes flickered to the boardroom. She knew the Cavendish partners were gathering votes. She felt the shift in tone—polite smiles turning into veiled warnings.
A French investor named Laurent had requested a private lunch. He represented a luxury conglomerate interested in acquiring her brand. They promised global expansion. Prestige.
And security.
It would mean giving up creative control.
The old Eleanor might have said yes.
The new one wasn't sure.
---
Later that evening, she returned home to find the lights dimmed and soft jazz floating through the air. Daniel had cooked—pasta, fresh greens, candles. He even wore a navy shirt, barely buttoned.
She smiled in spite of herself.
"Trying to soften the blow?" she asked playfully.
"I just wanted tonight to be about us."
They ate in silence at first, each tasting the weight between them.
Finally, Eleanor said, "A French investor wants to buy my label. I'd become creative director... in name only."
Daniel frowned. "You're even considering that?"
"I don't know what to consider anymore," she whispered. "The boutique... us... the board... your trip. I feel like I'm losing everything all at once."
Daniel reached for her hand. "You're not losing me."
She looked at him, vulnerable.
"But what if we're just too different? I create from elegance. You create from chaos. Maybe we burn too hot."
Daniel leaned in, brushing her lips with his.
"Or maybe we melt together just right."
---
Later that night, their lovemaking was fierce.
Not romantic.
Not soft.
It was raw.
A release of frustration, desire, and the desperation of two people terrified of time. He pinned her wrists to the headboard as she arched into him, breathless. She bit his shoulder, leaving a mark. He whispered her name like a prayer and a warning.
When they came together, it felt like thunder.
Afterward, Eleanor lay on his chest, silent.
Neither of them said the one thing they feared the most:
This might be the last night before everything changes.