The hum of silence filled the ValeTech lobby, broken only by the sound of Ava's brush against the wall. Streaks of color blossomed under her hand—burnished gold, deep crimson, a hint of midnight blue. The mural was coming alive, piece by piece, and with every stroke, she felt herself slipping into a world where time didn't exist.
She didn't notice Sebastian watching her at first. He stood near the glass balcony above, his arms folded, eyes fixed on her as if studying something he couldn't name. There was something hypnotic about her focus—the way her brow furrowed, the paint on her cheek, the delicate rhythm of her breathing. She looked free. Untamed. Everything he wasn't.
When she finally sensed his presence, she didn't turn. "You know, most people announce themselves before staring that long," she said, her voice light but edged with awareness.
"Most people don't look quite like that when they're working," he replied from above. Ava paused, brush midair. "Like what?"
He descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. "Like they're in love with what they do. It's… distracting."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe you're not used to passion that isn't about profit."
He stopped beside her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You make that sound like a flaw."
"Isn't it?" she asked softly, glancing up at him. "You built an empire out of control. I paint because I have none."
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His gaze dropped to her lips—brief, fleeting—but enough to make her heartbeat stutter.
"Control is necessary," he said finally, his tone quieter now. "Without it, things fall apart."
"Sometimes that's how beauty begins," she murmured.
He looked at her like she was saying something dangerous—and maybe she was.
She turned back to her painting, but her hand trembled slightly. His nearness had weight, heat, gravity. Every time he exhaled, she felt it against her skin. It was maddening.
"Your mural," he said after a pause, voice low, "what does it represent to you?"
She hesitated. "Freedom. Chaos. The courage to create something that might not be perfect."
He stepped closer again, his breath brushing her ear. "And you think perfection is overrated?"
"I think perfection is lonely," she whispered.
The air shifted—charged, electric. Her brush slipped, leaving a streak of red too bold, too raw. He reached out, his hand covering hers before she could pull away. His palm was warm, rough against the paint on her skin.
For a second, neither of them moved. The world outside—the city, the sounds, the light—ceased to exist.
Their eyes met. There was no need for words; the current between them said everything.
Then, as if remembering himself, Sebastian released her hand. "You should be careful," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Mixing emotions with work rarely ends well."
"Is that advice," she asked softly, "or a warning?"
"Both."
He turned, walking away before she could respond. She watched him go, her pulse still racing, her hand still tingling from where he'd touched her.
When the elevator doors closed behind him, the room felt emptier than before.
Ava looked back at the mural. That red streak — the one he'd caused — seemed to pulse with life. She left it there, refusing to cover it. It was imperfect. It was real. It was theirs.
She dipped her brush again, but her thoughts stayed tangled in his voice, his touch, the shadow of his gaze.
And as color bled into color on the wall before her, Ava realized something she wasn't ready to admit aloud —
she wasn't just painting for herself anymore.
She was painting for him.