He takes me to his studio.
The moment we arrive, I realize how unusual that is. Artists guard their studios like organs. Yet he leads me inside without hesitation.
The building itself is nondescript from the outside—industrial, forgotten—but once we’re inside, the layers of security become impossible to miss. A coded gate. Then another door. A biometric scanner. A keypad. Each access point opens only after he inputs something different. Numbers. Prints. Timing.
“Fort Knox?” I murmur.
He smiles faintly. “Something like that.”
The elevator rises silently, opening into a vast space that steals my breath.
The studio is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap the space, the city stretched beneath us like a living canvas. Tables are scattered with vellum sheets, charcoal sticks, brushes, ink bottles. The air smells faintly of paint, metal, and something darker.
This isn’t chaotic creativity.
It’s controlled obsession.
My eyes track every detail. The way nothing is accidental. The way even disorder is intentional.
And then I see it.
A painting on an easel near the center of the room.
Abstract. Raw. Magnetic.
It pulls me forward before I even realize I’m moving.
“Oh,” I breathe.
The colors are layered, fractured—motion trapped in pigment. It feels unfinished and complete at the same time. Alive. Like a heartbeat translated into form.
“It’s beautiful,” I say without looking back at him. “Why isn’t it out yet?”
He comes to stand beside me. “Because I painted it during the days I stayed away from you.”
I turn slowly.
“I don’t know what to name it yet,” he continues. “But I’ll make it public in three days—if you agree to go on another date with me.”
I stare at him. Really stare.
“We had a deal,” I remind him. “One date.”
“I want many more,” he says calmly. “And you’ll just have to deal with it. No more promises.”
My pulse skids.
I glance around the studio, the security, the intimacy of the space. “Sebastian, why bring me here? Why show me this?”
His gaze holds mine, unflinching.
“First,” he says, “because you’re the muse.”
My breath catches.
“And second,” he adds quietly, “because you see what others don’t.”
Heat pools low in my belly. I look at him. He looks at me. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
