Thirty minutes later, the house had settled into a quiet that felt different from before—softer, warmer, as if something unspoken had shifted in the space itself—and when I stepped into the living room, I found him already there, exactly where I had expected him to be.
Waiting.
My steps slowed without me meaning them to.
Chak was leaning slightly against the back of the couch, one hand resting casually in his pocket, his posture relaxed in that controlled way that never truly let anything slip, and yet the moment his gaze lifted and found me, something in it changed—subtle, but unmistakable.
I was wearing his robe.
Black.
Silk.
Too big.
The fabric slipped slightly off one shoulder as I moved, revealing just enough skin to make the contrast impossible to ignore, and the sleeves hung past my wrists while the length barely stayed in place with each step, as though it had never been meant for me and yet somehow belonged there anyway.
His gaze didn't move.
Didn't soften.
If anything—it sharpened.
I stopped a few steps away, tilting my head just slightly.
"What?" I asked, though there was a hint of a smile in my voice.
"Nothing," he said.
But the way he said it made it very clear it wasn't true.
I let out a quiet breath, the smile lingering as I turned slightly, motioning toward the hallway.
"Come with me."
There was no hesitation.
He followed.
The walk to my art room felt shorter than usual, the quiet between us filled with something heavier now, something that had been building slowly all evening, and the moment I stepped inside, that familiar shift returned—the air changing, grounding me in a way nothing else quite could.
I moved toward the desk without looking back, already reaching for my sketchbook.
"It's not finished," I said, flipping it open, though my fingers didn't hesitate. "But…"
I turned it toward him.
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Focused.
I watched him instead of the drawing.
Watched the way his eyes moved over the page, taking in every line, every detail—the structure of his shoulders, the definition of muscle drawn not to exaggerate but to capture exactly what I remembered, what I had seen, what I hadn't been able to stop thinking about.
"It's not your face," I added quietly. "I didn't need it."
He didn't answer immediately.
And somehow, that felt louder than anything else.
I stepped closer without thinking, my hand lifting almost instinctively as it slipped beneath the edge of his shirt, my fingers brushing against his skin, tracing lightly over the firmness of his muscles as if confirming that what I had drawn was real, that it existed beyond paper and memory.
Like it belonged to me.
Or maybe—
like I wanted it to.
His body didn't tense.
He didn't move my hand away.
If anything, he let it happen.
Watched me.
Felt it.
My touch slowed, more deliberate now, my fingers resting there for a second longer than necessary, and I could feel the steady warmth of him beneath my palm, the quiet strength that never needed to prove itself.
Then—
his hand closed gently around mine.
Not to stop me.
But to guide me.
Slowly, he lifted my hand from where it rested against him and pressed it higher, placing it firmly against his chest, right over his heart, the steady rhythm unmistakable beneath my palm.
I stilled.
His gaze held mine.
And when he spoke, his voice was lower than before, quieter—but carrying something deeper beneath it.
"This heart…" he murmured slowly, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles as he kept my hand exactly where he wanted it, "…doesn't beat only for me."
My breath caught slightly.
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"It beats for you too."
The words settled between us, heavy and undeniable, sinking deeper than anything else he had said that night, and for a moment I couldn't move, couldn't think, could only feel the steady rhythm beneath my hand and the way everything inside me seemed to answer it without hesitation.
I swallowed softly, my fingers pressing just slightly against his chest as if I needed to make sure it was real.
"You say things like that," I whispered, my voice quieter now, almost unsteady, "and then expect me to stay calm."
A faint breath left him.
"Who said I expect that?"
There was something dangerous in the way he said it.
Something honest.
I stepped closer again, closing the last bit of distance between us, the fabric of his robe brushing against him as I tilted my head just slightly, my gaze still locked with his.
"Then don't," I murmured.
And this time—
neither of us looked away.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
My hand was still pressed against his chest, right over his heart, and I could feel it—steady, strong, unwavering beneath my palm, as if it had no intention of slowing down no matter what I did, no matter how close I stood, no matter how much I let myself feel.
It was grounding.
And dangerous at the same time.
His hand was still around mine, holding it there, not tightly, not forcefully, just enough to make it clear that he wanted it exactly where it was, and the warmth of his touch spread slowly through my fingers, up my arm, settling somewhere deeper than it should have.
"Feel it?" he murmured, his voice low, almost quiet enough to disappear if I wasn't paying attention.
I didn't look away.
"Yeah," I whispered.
A slow breath left him, his gaze dropping briefly to where our hands were connected before returning to my face, sharper now, more focused, like he was trying to memorize something he didn't want to forget.
"Good."
The word was simple.
But it stayed.
My fingers pressed slightly more against his chest without me realizing it, as if I was trying to match the rhythm, to understand it, to hold onto it just a little longer than I should have, and the silence between us stretched again—not empty, never empty—but full in a way that made everything else feel distant.
I swallowed softly.
"This…" I started, my voice quieter now, uncertain for the first time that night, "this isn't fair."
His brows pulled together slightly.
"Which part?"
I let out a small breath, shaking my head just a little.
"You," I said, almost under my breath. "The way you say things like that… like it's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
The answer came immediately.
Steady.
Certain.
And that made it worse.
My gaze dropped for a second, just long enough for doubt to try and slip in, to remind me of everything that existed outside of this room, outside of this moment, everything that didn't fit as easily as this did.
"With her," I added quietly.
The words barely made it out.
But they did.
And the shift in the air was instant.
Not sharp.
Not explosive.
Just… heavier.
His hand tightened slightly around mine—not enough to hurt, just enough to stop me from pulling away, just enough to make sure I didn't pretend I hadn't said it.
"Look at me," he said.
I didn't want to.
But I did.
His gaze was steady.
Unwavering.
"There's a place for what the world expects from me," he said slowly, each word deliberate, controlled in the way only he could manage. "And then there's you."
I didn't interrupt.
I couldn't.
"They're not the same," he continued, his voice lowering slightly, something more personal slipping through the edges. "And they never will be."
My chest tightened.
"That doesn't make it disappear," I whispered.
"No," he agreed without hesitation.
And somehow, that honesty hit harder than anything else.
"It doesn't."
Silence followed.
But it wasn't avoidance.
It wasn't distance.
It was something real, something acknowledged without being solved, and for a second I just stood there, feeling the weight of it settle instead of fighting it.
His thumb brushed lightly over my hand again.
Softer this time.
"You think I don't know what I'm asking from you?" he murmured.
My eyes lifted again.
"Then why—"
"Because I chose you."
The words cut through everything else.
Clean.
Certain.
Final.
I stilled.
And for the first time that night, I didn't have anything to say back.
Because there was nothing to argue with.
Nothing to push against.
Only something to accept.
Slowly, his hand loosened just slightly, not letting go, just easing the pressure as his other hand moved, sliding up along my side, over the silk of the robe, until it rested at my waist again, pulling me just a little closer.
Not enough to overwhelm.
Just enough to remind me.
"You can question everything else," he added quietly, his gaze softening just enough to make it worse. "But not that."
My breath caught slightly.
"Chak…"
He didn't let me finish.
His hand shifted, fingers brushing lightly against my jaw as he tilted my head just enough to close the space between us again, his forehead resting against mine for a brief second before he spoke, softer now.
"Stay here."
The words were different this time.
Not a question.
Not a request.
Something deeper.
"With me," he added.
And I realized—
he wasn't talking about the room.
He didn't wait any longer.
The air in the art room is thick with the scent of oil paints and anticipation.
As Chak lifts me onto my own work table, the cool wood against my skin contrasts sharply with the heat of his lips.
He pulls my cloak away, his kisses tracing a path across my skin that makes my head spin.
When he spreads his own cloak, looking at me with that raw intensity, he murmurs, "Your artist's body is incredible."
I'm breathless, overwhelmed by the connection. "Tonight, just kisses, please," I whisper, needing to feel the closeness of his touch without the rest of the world intruding.
"As you wish, artist," he murmurs against my neck. "Just kisses."
But as his lips travel lower, my composure shatters. The friction, the heat, the way he knows exactly where to touch—it's too much and not enough. "Touch it, please," I find myself pleading.
I see the playful, sharp glint in his eyes. "What should I touch?"
"You know," I breathe out, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He smiles—that devastating, knowing smile—and wraps his hand around me. He doesn't look away; he keeps his eyes locked on mine, making sure I feel every ounce of his focus.
I reach for him, pulling him flush against me, wanting to return the sensation.
I mirror his rhythm, my hand moving in sync with his, our breath hitching in a frantic, shared tempo.
In that final, blurred moment where everything else fades into white light and sensation, we move as one. As the world slowly comes back into focus and our breathing steadies, I lean into him, my voice a soft rasp.
"This, is art too."