What She Wants

(Contract: Day 6)

The morning unfolded in stillness.

Aanya woke before the light fully bled through the tall windows of her bedroom. The air was cool, sweet with the scent of pine and distant damp. She dressed slowly—an oversized cream linen shirt tucked half-heartedly into loose black pants, her hair braided to the side, her feet bare on the cold stone floor.

She moved quietly through the villa, pausing once in the hall outside the studio, then heading to the kitchen.

There was no one there.

As usual.

She made herself breakfast—plain toast, a poached egg, black coffee. No music. No conversation. Just the scrape of cutlery and the occasional clink of her mug against porcelain.

It was the kind of silence that used to feel heavy.

Now, it felt deliberate.

She didn't know if that was better or worse.

By midmorning, Aanya walked the back garden, sketchbook in hand.

The sun hadn't yet broken the haze completely. The trees cast shadows in soft diagonal lines, and somewhere in the hedge, birds stitched song between branches.

She found a stone bench beneath a cypress tree and sat.

At first, she didn't draw.

She only watched.

And then, without meaning to, her pencil moved.

She started with the outline of a figure—not hers, not his, but something imagined. A man, seated on the edge of a chair, head bowed, hands clasped between his knees. There was nothing overtly sensual about it. But there was want. Coiled. Suppressed.

When she realized what she was doing, she stopped.

But she didn't tear the page out.

She returned to her studio after lunch—bread with pesto and tomato, eaten standing near the villa's southern window, alone.

There were two rooms in her life now: the one she ate in, and the one where she bled in charcoal and paint.

Inside the studio, the light struck the canvas at a perfect angle, kissing the corner of the figure she'd abandoned yesterday. A mouth, slightly open. A shoulder turned inward.

The sketchbook still lay open from the night before. She glanced at the drawing—the one with the lifted hem, the almost-exposed stomach, the implication of watching oneself being watched.

It wasn't her, not exactly.

But it came from somewhere she couldn't pretend was fictional.

She turned the page and began something new.

This one was rougher. Less calculated.

A hand. Holding something. Maybe cloth, maybe nothing. It looked like it had just let go—or was about to grip harder.

She shaded around it, then paused, pressing the heel of her hand against her sternum.

It was happening again—that ache.

Not pain.

But proximity.

She didn't hear the door open.

But she felt it.

Leonhart entered the room with that same quiet presence. No announcement. No attempt to be welcomed.

She kept her back to him.

"If you came to judge my lines," she said, "I'm not in the mood."

"I came because I wanted to see."

"See what?"

"What happens when you stop protecting everything."

Aanya turned.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, suit jacket open, shirt slightly wrinkled as if he hadn't slept. His eyes were tired, but focused.

She stepped away from the table.

"What do you think I've been doing this whole time? Hiding?"

"Yes."

"And you just... wait for the curtain to fall?"

"I don't touch the stage," he said. "Not unless invited."

Her arms crossed, jaw tight. "You built the stage."

Leonhart gave a quiet exhale. "I gave you the key."

"To what?"

"You decide."

Silence.

Then:

"What do you want from me, Leonhart?"

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

"That's not the real question."

"Then what is?"

"What do you want?"

She blinked.

And blinked again.

Her throat worked, but no sound came.

"I don't mean what you need," he continued. "I don't mean what you've lost. I mean want. That sharp, irrational hunger you don't say aloud."

"I don't think I have that," she said.

"Everyone does."

"Then maybe mine died."

Leonhart took one step closer. Not enough to breach her space, but enough to be felt.

"You're wrong," he said. "You're just afraid you'll never be able to ask for it without being punished."

The words struck deeper than she expected.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were too familiar.

"I don't want to be broken open," she whispered.

"I won't do that to you."

She looked up.

"But you'll watch me do it to myself?"

"If that's how you choose to become whole."

He waited.

She didn't move.

But she didn't leave either.

She skipped dinner that evening.

Not because of protest. Because she needed quiet.

She took her meal upstairs instead—a bowl of lentil soup, a slice of olive bread, a few grapes. She ate near the window, seated on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest.

Then she returned to the studio.

Night had fallen. The villa had gone still.

And on the table, where her sketchbook waited, something had shifted.

No objects. No notes. No gifts.

But a mirror.

Not left by him. Just part of the old furniture, unpolished, heavy brass frame catching candlelight. She set it upright and stared.

At her own face.

She didn't pose. Didn't tuck her hair back. Didn't adjust the collar of her shirt.

She only looked.

And then—slowly, deliberately—she began to draw herself again.

This time, not as a symbol. Not as a message.

As a body.

Her shoulder, bare. The curve of her back. Her collarbone.

She didn't show her face. Only her posture.

Only the truth of being seen.

She finished it in fifteen minutes.

Tore the page out.

Laid it on the floor.

And sat beside it.

Sometime after midnight, she heard footsteps outside her studio.

They paused.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

But in the silence, something passed between them.

Not request.

Not refusal.

Just presence.

She stood and went to the door.

Didn't open it.

But turned the handle just enough to say—

I know you're there.

Then let go.

The next morning, she dressed in soft cotton—light brown trousers and a white button-down left open at the collar. She tied her hair in a low knot and wore no jewelry. Her skin smelled like soap and sleep.

Breakfast was already on the table when she arrived.

Two plates.

He was there.

Seated. Silent.

She paused at the threshold.

Then walked in.

He didn't look up from his coffee.

But when she sat, he finally spoke.

"From now on, I'd prefer if we shared all meals. Together."

She blinked. "Why?"

"Because you're here."

"And that's enough of a reason?"

"For me."

She looked at her plate.

Omelet. Toast. Berries in a ceramic bowl.

Simple.

Intentional.

"Fine," she said. "But I don't talk in the mornings."

"I don't require it."

They ate.

Together.

No questions. No remarks.

But the rhythm had changed.

Later that day, she didn't go to the garden.

She didn't draw.

She only walked into her studio, stared at the empty canvas—

and picked up her brush.

Final Lines:

What she wanted wasn't clarity.It wasn't safety.It was this—the space between being left aloneand being chosen again.