Moonlight spilled through the open window, casting a pale, liquid glow across the floorboards. On the balcony, Ethan leaned against the railing, his silhouette sharp against the night sky. He stood perfectly still, watching thin clouds drift across the moon before his gaze finally shifted back inside.
Zara lay sprawled across his bed, fast asleep.
Seeing her like this stirred something he had spent months trying—unsuccessfully—to bury.
It was well past midnight, and the air was restless and warm. Zara had kicked the duvet aside, leaving herself tangled in the sheets, her hair scattered across the pillow like spilled ink. Her breathing was the only sound in the room—soft, steady, and hauntingly familiar.
Moving with practiced silence, Ethan dragged his easel into the light. Without a word, he began to paint.
The room fell into a heavy quiet, filled only with the rhythmic scratch of his brush and the cool night breeze.
He worked slowly, building her piece by piece on the canvas. The curve of her shoulder. The fall of her hair.
His brush slowed. His gaze drifted from the canvas down to the real thing. The sheets had slipped, leaving her legs half-covered, one knee bent just enough to break the stillness of her posture. He looked away almost immediately—then back again, just for a second, as if memorizing a secret he had no right to keep.
His jaw tightened, and he forced his focus back to the canvas, capturing the unguarded expression she would never allow him to see while she was awake.
Morning light settled over the room, sharp and unforgiving.
Zara's eyes snapped open. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of a dull, pounding ache settling behind her eyes. As the broken pieces of the night before began to click into place, she shot upright.
Her gaze landed on Ethan.
"You bastard," she rasped. "How the hell did I get here?"
Ethan didn't react. He stretched, his muscles stiff from hours of stillness. "I'll make tea," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
He turned toward the kitchen, but as Zara scrambled out of bed, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her breath hitched. She was still in her tank top, but her jeans were gone—replaced by a pair of boxers that were clearly his.
Heat rushed to her face. "What did you do to me, Ethan?" Her voice trembled with a mix of fury and fear.
"Why am I dressed like this?"
Ethan placed a cup on the table, his expression unreadable. "You were out cold. I wasn't going to let you sleep in denim and dirt."
"You absolute prick." Zara grabbed her clothes, pulling them on with sharp, restless movements.
She snatched the boxers and threw them at his chest.
"Explain. Everything."
Ethan looked at her then, his eyes tracking her slowly. "What do you think happened, Zara? Or is it just easier to accuse me than admit you needed help?"
"Help?" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "You brought me here when I couldn't even stand. You think that's okay?"
"If I'd left you there," he said quietly, "you wouldn't be standing here right now to argue about it."
"Don't twist this," she snapped. "You don't get to play the hero."
Silence stretched between them, thin and vibrating. Ethan took a single step forward. Zara instinctively retreated until her back hit the wall.
"Careful, Zara," he said, his voice dropping to a controlled dangerous level. "You're saying things you don't really understand."
"You told me you didn't love me anymore," she whispered, her breath catching as he leaned in. "So why am I here?"
Ethan's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. He was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. Zara's eyes fluttered shut, bracing for a collision that didn't come.
Ethan pulled back, a faint, mocking smile touching his lips. "You're right. I did say that."
He didn't move away, keeping her pinned with his stare. "Do you think I meant it? Or do you want me to prove I didn't?"
"Go to hell, Ethan!"
Zara snatched her bag and bolted for the door.
She almost reached the handle when his hand closed around her wrist, pulling her back with sudden, jarring force. She stumbled into his chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Before she could scream, Ethan leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was the sound of something restrained finally snapping—frustration, anger, and every word he'd refused to say. Zara froze for a heartbeat before pushing against his shoulders, her breath hitching in her throat.
Just as suddenly, he let her go.
"Go home," he said, his voice returning to that cold, distant mask.
Zara stared at him, her lips trembling, her thoughts a tangled mess of confusion.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Fuck you, Ethan."
She yanked the door open, the sound of it slamming echoing through the apartment.
Outside, the cool air hit her face, but she stopped. Something—some nagging instinct—made her turn back.
The door wasn't fully latched. Through the crack, she saw Ethan standing by the window. He tilted his head toward the easel, a faint, dangerous hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
"Come back for more?" he asked, his voice trailing off with a challenge.
Zara's expression hardened. "Go to hell."
Her eyes followed his gaze to the canvas. She froze. The air left her lungs. It wasn't just a portrait; it was her. The softness she hid from the world, the stillness of her soul captured in oil and moonlight.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
"You had no right," she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet sharper than any shout.
Ethan didn't answer.
Zara looked at the painting for one second longer—memorizing the way he saw her—before tearing her gaze away. She straightened her posture, her expression turning to stone.
"Don't ever do something like that again."
She turned to leave, took two steps, and stopped.
A small, shaky breath escaped her.
"...Thank you. For last night."
Ethan's jaw tightened. He didn't look at her.
"You were a mess," he said at last. His voice was low—not unkind, just miles away.
Zara didn't respond. This time, she didn't look back.