The city of New York hummed beneath Daniel's window—horns blaring, lights flickering like restless stars. He stood shirtless in the small kitchen of his rented loft, one hand gripping a coffee mug, the other scrolling absently through Eleanor's latest runway photos on his tablet.
Her new collection—Wounded Grace—was already causing a stir. The designs were raw: jagged cuts softened by delicate stitching, high necklines contrasting with exposed spines. Critics called it "emotional architecture." Daniel called it her soul, sewn in silk.
She hadn't sent him the pictures.
He'd found them himself.
Still, he knew they were meant for him.
Just like every dress before.
---
In London, Eleanor stood backstage at her boutique's private showing, dressed in obsidian silk and draped in tension. The applause had faded, the lights dimmed, but her heartbeat still echoed in her ears.
She'd seen Daniel in the front row.
Or maybe it was a mirage—her mind playing cruel tricks in the shape of the man she missed.
She walked slowly back to the dressing room, ignoring the congratulations, her mind elsewhere.
She thought of the first night he'd touched her shoulder… the first time he'd said her name like it was a secret.
She hadn't stopped craving him since.
---
Three days later, he called at midnight.
"I miss the scent of your studio," he said softly.
"I miss the sound of your camera," she replied.
A pause stretched between them.
"I want to see you," he added.
"Then why haven't you come?"
"Because I didn't want to arrive as a ghost," he said. "I wanted to come back as a man who made you proud."
Tears welled in her eyes—hot, quiet, unwelcome.
"You already do."
---
Two weeks passed before Daniel arrived in London.
He didn't tell her.
He showed up unannounced at her boutique—his coat dusted with snow, his eyes searching. Lila's jaw dropped when she saw him. He pressed a single finger to his lips, then walked slowly past racks of silk and lace toward the office.
She was inside, standing over her desk, studying fabric swatches.
When she looked up, she gasped.
Time bent.
"I was starting to think I made you up," she whispered.
"I nearly let myself believe that too."
He walked toward her, hesitant.
Then faster.
And then they collided.
Their kiss wasn't gentle.
It was frantic. Desperate. A year's worth of loneliness compressed into a single breath.
He pulled her against him, lifting her onto the desk. She wrapped her legs around his waist, tugging at his coat. His lips traced the curve of her throat, her collarbone, the small place behind her ear that made her gasp.
"You feel the same," he murmured against her skin.
"You taste better," she whispered back.
Buttons were undone. Fabric slipped. Her blouse slid from her shoulders like a confession. His belt hit the floor. Their bodies spoke the language they hadn't uttered in months.
She arched into him, sighing.
He filled her with slow, aching hunger.
It wasn't just sex.
It was memory.
It was everything they hadn't said across months and miles.
It was home.
---
Afterward, they lay tangled on the velvet couch, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles on her hip.
He finally asked, "What do we do now?"
Eleanor looked up at him, sleepy but certain.
"We don't waste time pretending we can live without each other."
He nodded.
"I've been offered a permanent role at the gallery," he said.
"And?"
"I said no."
Her brows lifted in surprise.
He continued, "I want to open a small studio here. Close to you. Something real. Mine."
She reached for his hand.
"Then let's build it—together."
---
Outside, the snow had stopped.
And for the first time in a long time, the world felt warm again.