The old studio was colder than Ethan remembered.
Dust clung to the windows.
A few old canvases leaned forgotten in the corner.
The mattress was long gone.
So was the easel.
The life they built there had already moved on.
But still—they came back.
One year.
To the day.
“I didn’t think I’d feel this much,” Ethan said softly, stepping inside.
Jace trailed behind him, fingers brushing along the cracked windowsill. “You feel everything too much. That’s why I fell for you.”
Ethan smiled. “I thought it was my hair.”
“It was your guilt. And your ass.”
They laughed. The kind of laugh only shared by people who’ve been through hell and still wake up in each other’s arms.
Their life now was simple.
Jace had just finished a second gallery show—small, personal, brutal in the way good art
