The Heart of Stillness

The studio was quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your breath sound too loud, your heartbeat feel like it's echoing off the walls. Amelia sat still, the charcoal resting in her palm, Daniel in front of her once again—shirtless, comfortable, dangerous in the way only someone who doesn't try to be could be.

But today, something was different.

The tension wasn't sharp—it was thick. Like warm honey poured over skin, slow and sweet and clinging.

Daniel's eyes weren't just watching her—they were searching. Not for flaws. For feeling.

"You draw like you're afraid to touch," he said, his voice low, laced with that soft grit that made her stomach flutter. "But your eyes—they touch me everywhere."

Her fingers twitched. A smudge on the canvas gave her away.

She tried to laugh it off, but it came out breathy, caught somewhere between confession and collapse. "Maybe I am afraid."

He tilted his head. "Of me?"

She shook hers slowly. "Of what you make me feel."

Daniel stood, walked toward her—not rushed, not slow, just deliberate. When he reached her, he didn't speak. He took her hand. Lifted it. Brought it to his chest.

"Then feel it," he said. "For real."

His skin was warm, alive under her fingertips. She could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Bold. Real.

She traced along his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, not as an artist—but as a woman surrendering to a moment she'd painted a hundred times in her head but never dared to live.

Her fingers paused at the edge of his jaw.

"I've been holding myself back," she admitted, voice barely audible.

"Then don't," he murmured, closing the gap between them—not with his body, but with his breath, his gaze, his stillness that roared louder than any touch.

It wasn't a kiss.

Not yet.

But it was a promise.

One that left her trembling.