The studio smelled of turpentine and fading roses. I sat cross-legged on the paint-splattered drop cloth, staring at the three unfinished canvases propped against the far wall.
My vision blurred with exhaustion, but my hand kept moving, brush dragging dark crimson across ivory. Each stroke felt like slicing open an old wound. But I didn't care.
I needed to finish these pieces before my body gave out on me.
"Madison."
His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. I looked up to see Logan standing in the doorway, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His hair was damp from a shower, falling slightly over his forehead.
He looked… human. Almost vulnerable.
"What?" I rasped, my voice hoarse from dehydration.
"You haven't eaten all day." His eyes flicked to the untouched tray of pasta and fruit Maria had left hours ago.
"I'm not hungry."
His jaw ticked. Without a word, he crossed the room and crouched in front of me, reaching out to brush paint off my cheek. I flinched away before his fingers could touch me.
"Don't," I whispered.
His hand froze mid-air, then dropped to his knee. He stared at me with those stormy grey eyes, shadows swirling beneath the surface.
"You're killing yourself with this," he said softly.
I let out a bitter laugh, blinking back tears. "At least I'm dying for something I love."
Pain flickered across his face, raw and unfiltered. For a moment, it almost looked like regret. But then his expression hardened again.
"I booked your next treatment session for Friday," he said, standing abruptly. "I'll take you."
"I can go alone," I replied, forcing myself to stand despite the trembling in my legs.
He grabbed my wrist gently but firmly, his touch warm and grounding. "No. You can't."
Our eyes locked. His were filled with a desperation he would never admit.
"Let go, Logan," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Let me do this my way."
But he didn't let go.
Instead, his grip tightened as his other hand rose to cup my cheek, smearing crimson paint across my skin. His thumb brushed my bottom lip, leaving a streak of red.
"You're covered in paint," he murmured, his voice low and husky.
I shivered under his touch, fighting the heat pooling in my stomach. I hated that he still affected me like this. That even now, after all his coldness, his nearness could make me feel alive.
"It's my blood," I said softly. "My life. My art."
His eyes darkened. "You think painting will save you?"
I smiled sadly. "It already has."
---
That night, I lay curled up on my studio couch, wrapped in an old fleece blanket, staring at my unfinished canvas. My body ached with fever chills, and nausea churned in my stomach, but I refused to leave.
At some point, I fell into a restless sleep filled with vivid dreams.
I was standing on a cliff in my red dress, wind whipping my hair wildly around my face. The storm roared below, waves crashing against jagged rocks. Behind me stood Logan, silent and looming.
"Jump," he ordered, his voice flat.
I turned to him, tears streaming down my face. "Why?"
"Because I can't stand to watch you die slowly," he whispered.
I shook my head. "I'm not dying. I'm learning how to live without you."
---
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, my chest tight with pain. As I sat up, the world spun violently around me. Darkness crowded my vision, and I collapsed back onto the pillow, trembling.
The studio door creaked open. I heard his quiet intake of breath before strong arms lifted me effortlessly from the couch. I tried to protest, but my voice was barely a whisper.
"Stop… Logan… I'm fine…"
"Shut up," he growled softly, cradling me against his chest. His heart thudded beneath my cheek, strong and steady.
He carried me down the hall into the master bedroom. The sheets were cool against my fevered skin as he laid me down gently. I felt the mattress dip beside me as he sat, brushing sweat-damp hair from my forehead.
"Why are you doing this?" I croaked weakly, tears filling my eyes. "Why do you care now?"
His hand paused in my hair. Silence stretched between us, heavy with words unspoken.
Finally, his voice broke the quiet, so low I barely heard it.
"Because I don't know who I am without you."
My tears slipped down my cheeks silently. I wanted to scream at him. To hit him. To tell him that was the cruelest thing he had ever said.
Because it wasn't love.
It was dependence.
And I couldn't afford to be needed by a man who didn't know how to love.
I drifted in and out of fevered sleep for hours. At dawn, I woke to find him asleep sitting up against the headboard, his hand still tangled protectively in my hair. Harsh morning light spilled across his face, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes and the unshaven stubble along his sharp jawline.
He looked tired.
Broken.
Human.
For a brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be loved by him. To have his fierce devotion not out of guilt or fear, but because he truly saw me.
But the thought was too painful, so I closed my eyes again and let the darkness swallow me.
When I woke next, Maria was gently spooning broth into my mouth. Logan was gone, but his warmth lingered on the sheets beside me.
"He's in his office," she said softly, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "He hasn't slept properly in days."
I swallowed painfully, tears burning my throat. "That's his choice."
She sighed, brushing hair from my damp forehead. "He's trying, ma'am."
I laughed bitterly. "Trying to keep me alive so he doesn't feel guilty when I die."
She didn't respond, only squeezed my hand gently.
That evening, as I sat back in my studio finishing the storm woman piece, I felt eyes on me. I turned to see Logan leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
"What?" I asked hoarsely.
"Your exhibition," he said quietly. "I want to sponsor it."
I froze, my brush hovering mid-air. "No."
"Madison—"
"No," I repeated firmly, turning back to my canvas. "You don't get to buy your way into this part of my life. This is mine."
Silence.
When I looked back again, he was gone.
But his absence felt louder than his presence ever had.
As I painted the final stroke of the woman's billowing red dress, tears streamed down my cheeks. The storm raged behind her, dark and violent, but she stood tall – unafraid, unbroken.
And for the first time, I realised:
Even if my body was failing me,
My soul had never felt stronger.