That morning, I wake feeling…lighter. Grounded. As though the weight of five years has shifted into something I can actually carry.
Sienna is curled against me, her red hair spilling across the pillow like stolen fire. I reach out, brushing a strand from her face. She doesn’t stir.
I know we aren’t healed. We aren’t whole. We aren’t anywhere close to that. But last night…last night felt like a beginning. A moment where I looked into her eyes and didn’t see revenge, didn’t see war. I saw her.
My fingers trace her soft skin, careful, reverent. She moans softly in her sleep, and I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there, memorizing her warmth, her scent, the curve of her cheek.
For the first time in years, the quiet between us isn’t filled with tension. It’s possibility. It’s fragile. It’s terrifying.
It feels like home.
I hold her for a moment longer, tracing the line of her shoulder with a thumb, memorizing the warmth and softness, before the sunlight spilling through the curtains reminds me that the day is already moving. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, pulling the sheets up to cover her body, and then I step into the shower.
When I return, she’s still curled in sleep, serene and untouchable. I throw on comfortable clothes and head straight for the kitchen, needing the anchor of coffee.
Marko is already there, moving with quiet precision, leaning over the coffee machine as it hisses and drips. Heglances up and nods at me. I nod back, leaning against the counter, waiting for a cup.
His gaze sweeps me like he’s reading my thoughts—or warning me of trouble. My goodness. He doesn’t shut up.
Thankfully, he doesn’t speak. Moments later, he pours me a cup of black coffee and hands it over.
I murmur my thanks, the warmth of the cup grounding me for the moment.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “what’s the plan for today?”
“I have some projects to finish in the studio,” I reply, taking a slow sip.
“Okay,” he says simply, letting it drop.
I finish my coffee and turn away from the kitchen. On instinct, I check on Sienna. She’s still asleep, sprawled across the bed like she belongs there—like she’s always belonged there. I don’t wake her. I just stand there for a second longer than necessary, committing the sight of her to memory, then quietly leave.
Up in the studio, the first thing I see is the charcoal portrait.
It’s still uncovered.
My steps slow. I stop in front of it, my gaze catching on every familiar line, every shadow I memorized years ago without meaning to. I think of yesterday—of the way her breath hitched when she realized what she was looking at. Of the way her eyes softened before she shut it down, before she told herself it meant nothing.
A small smile touches my lips despite myself.
Oh, Sienna.
I reach for the cloth and cover the easel, like I’m tucking away something dangerous. Something too intimate to be leftexposed. Then I straighten, roll my shoulders back, and force my focus elsewhere. On other jobs that don’t have her face in it.
It doesn’t work.
My hands move automatically, muscle memory taking over, but my mind betrays me. It drifts back to her voice earlier—how it softened when she spoke about her mother, how the sharp edges she wears like armor briefly fell away. Pain lives there. Old, disciplined pain. The kind that never really leaves.
I learned about her mother’s death months after I walked away from her. Not from Sienna, but through a private investigator I hired. I learned that her critiques were born from that. Became sharper, more ruthless, less forgiving. I recognized the grief threaded through the precision. It made sense of things I hadn’t wanted to understand before.
By then, my heart was already set like stone.
I’d told myself it was too late. Easier to stay silent than reopen a wound I caused. Easier to let distance harden into permanence.
Now, standing here, regret settles deep in my chest, and that excuse tastes like ash. I exhale slowly, staring at the blank canvas in front of me.
Damn it.
I was an asshole.
