Rain fell softly against the windows of the studio, turning the city into a blur of silver and shadow. It was long past midnight, yet Ava couldn't stop painting. Her hands moved restlessly, guided by something she couldn't name.
The mural for ValeTech was nearly complete, yet the image that kept appearing on her canvas tonight wasn't part of the commission. It was a man — tall, sharp-featured, eyes both commanding and distant. A man who lived in her mind no matter how she tried to erase him.
Sebastian Vale.
She dipped her brush into a darker shade, tracing the lines of his jaw, the faint curve of his mouth. Every stroke was a confession she would never speak aloud.
A quiet knock startled her. She turned quickly, nearly dropping her brush.
When the door opened, he was standing there.
Sebastian.
No suit this time — just a dark shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The rain had dampened his hair, softening the edges of his usual perfection.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "The security lights were still on. I thought you might still be working."
Ava exhaled, trying to steady her racing pulse. "Couldn't sleep."
He stepped inside, glancing at the unfinished mural, then at the smaller canvas she'd tried to hide behind her easel. His gaze lingered on it.
"That's not part of the ValeTech project," he said quietly.
She hesitated. "No. It's… something else."
He walked closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the painting. It was him — not perfectly, but unmistakably him. The way she saw him. The way she felt him.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the rain tapping against the glass.
Finally, he spoke, voice low. "You painted me."
She swallowed hard. "Not intentionally."
"Liar," he said softly, and something about the word made her chest tighten.
Ava turned away, her heart thudding. "Maybe I just paint what consumes my thoughts."
His footsteps moved closer, slow, deliberate. "And do I consume them?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her breath came shallow as he stopped just behind her. The air shifted — warmer, charged. She could feel him without turning, his nearness a physical ache.
"Ava," he said, and her name sounded different on his tongue — less formal, more like a confession. "You shouldn't look at me like that."
"Like what?" she whispered.
"Like I'm not a man who can destroy you."
She turned then, meeting his eyes. "Maybe I don't care."
Something broke in his restraint — a visible crack in that perfect control. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver through her entire body.
"You make it very difficult to remember what lines shouldn't be crossed," he said.
"Then maybe they were never real," she breathed.
He exhaled sharply, as if the truth in her words burned. For a long moment, they just stood there — silence heavy with everything they couldn't say.
"You should sleep," he said finally, though his voice trembled with the effort.
"So should you," she murmured.
"I can't," he admitted. "Not anymore."
Their eyes locked again. It was a war of longing and fear — both knowing exactly where this could lead, both pretending they still had a choice.
Sebastian took a slow step back, his hand dropping to his side. "If I stay another minute, I'll forget who I'm supposed to be."
Ava's lips curved, soft and sad. "Then maybe you already have."
He almost smiled — almost. Then he turned toward the door. But before leaving, he looked back once more. The storm outside flashed, and for that split second, his face was illuminated — conflicted, haunted, alive.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Ava stood there, her pulse still wild, her heart unraveling. She turned back to the painting — to his painted gaze that now felt more intimate than ever. Her fingers brushed the canvas gently, smearing a bit of color.
"You're impossible," she whispered into the quiet.
Outside, the rain kept falling, relentless and patient.
In another part of the city, Sebastian sat alone in his penthouse, glass of whiskey untouched beside him. He stared out at the storm, the reflection of his own eyes staring back from the window.
He'd built his empire on logic, precision, distance. But tonight, all he could think about was the woman whose art had slipped beneath his armor. The way her voice trembled when she said his name. The way she made him feel — human.
For the first time in years, he didn't want to escape that feeling.
He wanted more.
And that realization terrified him more than any business risk he'd ever taken.
Because Ava Monroe wasn't just painting walls.
She was painting her way into his soul.