The wheels of the plane touched down in London just after dawn.
Eleanor sat by the window, her sketchbook open but untouched. Her fingers rested on the rose-copper silk Julian had given her—now folded neatly in her coat pocket, a reminder of restraint, not temptation.
As the city slowly came into view, the weight in her chest returned—but not heavy like guilt. This time, it was hunger. For the man who knew every line of her body, the one who painted her even when she wasn't looking.
Daniel.
She didn't text him. Didn't call. Didn't even tell her driver where she was going. Her heart was her compass, and it led her straight to his studio.
The door was unlocked.
The place smelled of turpentine and incense. Canvas leaned against every wall—unfinished pieces, color-blurred chaos, and one glowing centerpiece: Her.
The portrait had changed.
Now, Eleanor wasn't crying. Her eyes were closed, her hand pressed against her chest as though feeling a heartbeat. The silk curtain behind her seemed to dance in a non-existent breeze. The caption taped beside it read:
"She Returned as Light."
Daniel stepped out from the shadows behind the easel, shirtless, eyes rimmed red, paint on his wrists. For a second, they stared at each other—no words, no apologies, no pretense.
Eleanor walked up to him, chest trembling.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
She cupped his jaw. "I missed you."
Daniel's voice cracked. "I didn't breathe right the entire time."
Their mouths met—messy, desperate, wet with longing. Their bodies collided like waves—relearning each other's rhythm. He hoisted her up onto the nearest table, scattering brushes and paint tubes.
They didn't even get her coat off before she came apart in his hands.
---
Later, tangled in the couch blanket, Eleanor finally spoke.
"I wasn't tempted," she said softly.
Daniel nodded, eyes on the ceiling. "I wasn't angry. Just… scared."
She touched his chest, right over his heart. "You've always known how to strip me bare. But I had to learn how to keep myself whole—even when I'm not with you."
He kissed her forehead. "I don't want to own you. I just want to meet you over and over."
They stayed like that—silent, skin to skin—as sunlight crawled through the blinds like a quiet apology.
---
That afternoon, Eleanor returned to the studio.
Chloe was gone. Word had spread that she had tried to replicate Eleanor's designs and submit them to an influencer under her own name. Legal action wasn't needed—her reputation sank fast.
In her place was Maya, a soft-spoken Ghanaian fabric artist Eleanor had admired for years. Their first conversation sparked ideas within minutes. Laughter returned to the workroom. Energy surged.
Everything felt… right again.
---
That night, Daniel surprised her.
She walked into his loft to find candlelight flickering, rose petals scattered (though messily—Daniel had no aesthetic sense outside a canvas), and a velvet box on the coffee table.
"Don't panic," he said, grinning nervously. "I'm not proposing again. Yet."
Eleanor laughed, taking the box.
Inside was a silver thimble.
For a second, she didn't get it.
Then she saw it—etched inside: One Stitch At A Time.
Daniel said, "That's how I want to love you. Not just the big moments. But the slow ones. The quiet stitches no one sees."
Tears welled in her eyes. "You're getting good at this emotional stuff."
He smirked. "Blame the Italian red wine I drank alone for three nights."
She kissed him.
Then she whispered, "Let's fire Chloe officially tomorrow. And book a venue. I'm ready."
His grin turned wild. "God, I love you."
"I know."