The First Touch

(Contract: Day 1)

The room wasn't new. But it felt that way.

Same soft grey walls. Same quiet light. Same air that held no scent, no sound—just space.

Aanya stood inside it now, alone at first. The contract freshly signed, folded, still pressed between the pages of her sketchbook like something sacred or foolish. She hadn't brought anything else. No canvas. No brushes. Not even her bag.

Just herself.

She didn't hear the door open behind her. But she felt it.

Leonhart entered like shadow—soundless, composed, already watching. He didn't speak. Didn't ask if she was ready.

He just closed the door behind him. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he was sealing something in.

And maybe he was.

Her.

Himself.

This moment.

She turned, finally.

He looked at her—not like a man waiting to touch, but like a man waiting to be told he could.

It made her breath catch.

He gestured toward the canvas against the far wall. A fresh one. Larger than the one she had at home. Still white. Waiting.

She stepped forward, her boots echoing lightly. The floor wasn't carpeted. It was hardwood, pale, polished, without dust or distraction.

Beside the canvas sat a short table. On it: a palette, a brush, three jars of pigment—red, grey, and a deep blue that almost looked black. Nothing labeled. Nothing forced.

No instructions.

Only invitation.

She didn't speak. Neither did he.

She removed her coat.

Hung it neatly over the back of a chair she hadn't noticed before.

Then approached the pigments.

The brush remained untouched.

Instead, she lifted the jar of red. Opened it. Dipped two fingers inside.

The texture was thicker than she expected. Warm. Like something alive.

She faced the canvas.

And touched it.

The smear she left wasn't graceful. It wasn't symbolic.

It was a mark.

Claim, not decoration.

She added a second streak. Then a shape. Not structured. Not symmetrical.

A mouth. Open, incomplete. Beneath it, two hands. Not bound. But not loose either.

Fingers meeting at the center like a question.

She didn't know what it was becoming.

Only that it felt familiar.

Behind her, she heard the slight shift of fabric.

He was moving.

But not toward her.

Just… closer.

Still outside her space. But near enough that she could feel the pull.

Her shoulders tightened. Her breath grew shallow.

She dipped her hand again. More pigment. This time darker.

She traced one long arc down the canvas—across the throat she'd begun, suggesting skin without painting it.

When her hand stopped, she didn't pull away.

Instead, she stood still. Breathing.

Leonhart's voice came softly behind her.

"You're painting restraint. Not fear."

She didn't answer.

Her throat ached with the effort of holding in everything she wasn't ready to name.

His steps were so quiet they didn't register at first.

But when she turned, he was just behind her. Not touching. Not demanding.

Present.

She looked up at him.

"Is that what you want?" she asked.

"No," he said. "It's what you already gave."

Her lips parted.

She didn't know if it was a gasp or a question.

He reached out—not to her, but to the canvas.

He touched the red she left with the tip of one finger.

Then met her eyes.

"Tell me to stop."

She didn't.

She reached for another streak of pigment—this time pressing her hand to her own collarbone first. Leaving a red smear there. Then she stepped forward.

Placed that same hand over the center of his chest.

Flat. Firm.

Right over his shirt.

She felt the rhythm of his breath under her palm.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't move.

Her fingers flexed slightly.

Still, he didn't touch her.

Until her hand lowered—slow, controlled—and she nodded once.

Barely.

But he saw it.

Then, and only then, did he reach up.

His hand touched her face—knuckles first, then palm. Cradling, not claiming.

His thumb ran gently along her cheekbone.

She didn't close her eyes.

She didn't retreat.

Instead, she leaned in.

Their foreheads met.

Breath mingled.

No words.

No commands.

Just gravity.

His mouth didn't take hers—it waited.

And when she finally tilted her head, closing the last inch, their lips met without hunger.

Not a kiss meant to ignite.

A kiss meant to listen.

It lingered.

Her hand found his sleeve, fingers curling in fabric.

He pulled back half a second.

"Say no," he whispered, not because he wanted her to—but because she needed to know she could.

She didn't.

He kissed her again.

Deeper this time. But not rough.

His hands stayed in places that asked nothing: her arms, her shoulders, the small of her back.

His mouth tasted like silence and patience and something deeper he hadn't admitted yet.

She broke it first.

Pulled away gently. Pressed her forehead to his again.

Her voice came low, uneven.

"Don't give me what I want."

He stilled.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid I'll want more."

He looked at her then—not with heat, but with something older. Slower. Harder to run from.

"Then make me earn it."

She nodded once.

Not agreement.

Understanding.

He stepped back first. Not to leave. Just to breathe.

She reached for the rag near the palette, wiped her fingers slowly.

He didn't watch her hands. He watched her eyes.

When she finally spoke again, it wasn't to him.

It was to herself.

"You broke the rule."

He tilted his head.

"Which one?"

"Silence."

He smiled faintly.

"You broke it first."

Her lips twitched.

"I painted."

He nodded.

"And I answered."

There was nothing else to say.

She looked at the canvas. The unfinished shape. The red along its throat. The hands not touching.

A mirror of this moment.

Almost.

Later, she left the room without needing to be walked out.

Leonhart didn't follow.

He stayed inside, standing before the canvas she had touched, where her fingerprints still bled color into linen.

He didn't move to cover it.

Didn't move to clean.

He just stood still.

As if waiting for her to return.

At home, Aanya scrubbed her hands until the pigment faded.

But when she pulled off her shirt to change, she saw it:

A faint red smudge, just under her collarbone.

Her own hand.

Her own mark.

Still there.

Still warm.

She didn't shower.

She didn't want it gone.

She sat on the floor, turned on the lamp, opened her sketchbook.

Flipped to a blank page.

Then paused.

For the first time in years, she wrote.

Not a letter.

Not a painting plan.

Just one sentence:

"He looks at me like I'm already the thing he regrets never touching."

She closed the book.

Let it rest.

The silence in the room wasn't empty.

It was earned.

Final Lines:

The first touch wasn't the one that broke her.It was the one that said:You're allowed to touch back.