First Spark

(Contract: Day 7)

Aanya dressed without thinking.

A soft black shirt that clung just slightly to her spine, sleeves rolled to her elbows, paired with high-waisted trousers she hadn't worn since her first week in Florence. No jewelry. No makeup. Just a single stroke of kohl under each eye. A decision. A quiet one.

Aanya padded barefoot into the hall and paused at the top of the stairs.

The scent of rosemary bread and dark coffee drifted upward—rich, warm, grounded.

But not familiar.

Not hers.

She frowned slightly. She hadn't made breakfast yet.

Which meant someone else had.

Her hand hovered at the banister as she descended, slower than usual, every step quieter than the last.

When she turned into the dining room—

He was already there.

Leonhart sat at the table, sleeves rolled, a book half-open beside his plate.

Two settings. Food still warm.

She stopped in the doorway. "You're here."

He didn't look up right away. Then, calm as ever, "You didn't seem to like eating alone."

A pause stretched between them.

Then he added, "We could share all meals. If you want."

His voice gave her the illusion of choice.

But it wasn't a trap.

There was no pressure in it.

Just intention.

She didn't say yes.

She didn't say no.

She sat.

And that was enough.

Breakfast was quiet.

Omelets. Toast with olive oil. A bowl of fresh figs.

No music. No clinking silver. Just the sound of them chewing—separately, silently—and the hum of a villa neither of them completely inhabited.

She didn't ask who cooked.

He didn't ask why she'd paused at the door.

But something in the air had changed.

Not charged.

Not yet.

Just more aware of its own temperature.

Later, in the studio, the light hit her canvas in a way that made her stop mid-step.

The figure she'd begun the day before—bare back, elongated spine, fingers resting near the hip—had settled into a posture that wasn't resisting anymore.

It was bracing.

She stared at it for a full minute before she picked up a brush.

The black shirt she wore clung more than she remembered. The high-waisted trousers tightened slightly around her waist when she bent forward.

Still, she didn't change.

She painted.

The arch of a neck. The implied curve of a lower back. The tension that lived in muscle before release.

She didn't hear the door open.

But she felt it.

Leonhart entered with that silent, charged presence that made her breath catch—not because she feared him.

Because she recognized the way he looked at her work.

Not like he wanted her.

Like he was waiting for her to realize she wanted him.

The brush slipped.

A smear of red where there should've been shadow.

She cursed under her breath and reached to wipe it, but her sleeve caught the edge of the canvas instead.

Before she could adjust, he stepped forward.

His hand found her wrist.

Not possessive.

Not forceful.

But certain.

And it was the first time he touched her, without her permission.

She stilled.

The brush in her other hand hovered midair.

Their eyes met.

The air didn't move.

Her voice was soft. "You're not supposed to touch me."

"I know."

"But you didn't stop."

"Neither did you."

That line hung between them longer than the touch itself.

And then she stepped back.

He let go.

They didn't speak again until lunch.

It was already on the table when she arrived—roasted vegetables, pasta with fresh herbs, lemon water in glass tumblers.

He was seated.

She sat across from him.

This time, he broke the silence.

"You said you didn't want to be touched."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't pull away."

"I didn't."

"Then what did you want?"

She set her fork down.

"I'm still figuring that out."

He nodded.

Then said, "Tell me when you want more."

Aanya looked up sharply. "More?"

He didn't clarify.

She pushed, "What if I don't know what more means?"

Leonhart leaned back, fingers folded neatly in his lap.

"You'll know," he said, "when not touching me hurts more than staying still."

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

She picked up her fork again.

That evening, she didn't return to the canvas.

She went upstairs, changed into loose drawstring pants and an oversized grey tee, and sat cross-legged on the floor of her room.

No mirror. No charcoal. No plan.

Just breath.

She placed her palm flat against her own collarbone and let it stay there. Her skin was warm. Her pulse steady.

But the thought that someone else might feel that pulse—

might want to—

unsettled her.

In a good way.

The moon rose behind thick clouds.

The villa creaked like it was exhaling.

She couldn't sleep.

Around midnight, she walked barefoot into the hall, hair loose, sleeves pushed high. The studio door stood half-open.

She didn't enter.

But she stood in the archway and looked at the canvas.

It had dried just enough for her to see the new lines—rougher, sharper. Hungrier.

She traced the air in front of it with her fingers but didn't touch.

Down the hall, a faint light glowed beneath his study door.

She walked past it.

Paused.

Didn't knock.

Didn't leave either.

Eventually, she whispered—not loud enough to be heard.

"Not yet."

Then she went back to her room.

She dreamed in color again.

Red. Grey. Smoke.

A breath at the back of her neck.

A question she almost said aloud.

Morning.

She dressed in an olive blouse tucked into cream trousers. Pulled her hair into a braid. No lipstick, no jewelry. Just clean skin and clear eyes.

When she stepped into the kitchen, breakfast was already laid out.

Oats. Warm bread. Black coffee.

And him.

Seated. Calm.

He looked up.

"Good morning."

She nodded. "You're making a habit of this."

"You didn't say no."

A beat.

"Is that how you take consent?" she asked.

His voice didn't falter. "No. That's how I recognize comfort."

She sat.

They ate without another word.

After breakfast, she didn't paint.

She sketched.

Five different figures.

All faceless.

All seated.

Hands open. Shoulders soft. Not submissive. Not dominant.

Just seen.

When she finished, she chose one.

Not because it looked like him.

Because it looked like what she wanted him to see.

She transferred it to canvas. Light pencil lines first. Then pigment.

Brushstrokes smooth. Focused.

Her pulse didn't race.

But her skin felt warmer with every layer she added.

The color lived at the base of the spine, in the crook of the shoulder, in the barely-there suggestion of something wanting to be touched.

When she stepped back, the painting looked less like desire—

and more like readiness.

Dinner was late.

She came down after sundown and found the table already lit.

Candles. Not for romance.

Just ambiance.

Just intention.

He stood when she entered.

She stopped.

He didn't reach for her chair. Didn't guide her arm. Just nodded once.

A silent question.

She sat.

They ate.

Pasta. Wine.

No talk.

Until halfway through the meal, she set her glass down and said,

"You keep watching me like you're waiting."

"I am."

"For what?"

"For you to tell me what this is."

"What if I don't know?"

"Then I wait."

She tilted her head.

"You're patient for someone used to control."

He looked straight at her.

"Because control without permission is just violence in a prettier suit."

She blinked.

Then nodded.

And they kept eating.

She didn't go to her studio that night.

She didn't need to.

The want was already inside her.

Painted. Sketched. Fed.

Waiting.

Final Lines:

Desire didn't start with touch.It started with permission.And she had just given it to herself.