It had been three days since the kiss.
Three days of silence that said everything.
Ayden buried himself in sketches. In silence. In every rule he lived by. But every time Luca brushed past him, every time their fingers accidentally touched while pinning fabric, something inside him sparked—and hurt.
Camille had stopped asking questions. They just watched now. Patient. Knowing.
Ayden hated it.
That evening, the storm broke.
They stayed late for fitting revisions. The model had canceled last-minute, and Luca—being tall, broad, and painfully smug—volunteered to try the outfit on.
He stood in front of the mirror in a half-finished mesh top with structured shoulders and minimal coverage.
"Like what you see?" he teased, catching Ayden staring.
Ayden turned sharply. "Grow up."
Luca's smile vanished. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"The cold mask. Every time we get too close, you panic. Is that how you survive, Ayden? Pretend you don't feel anything?"
Ayden's jaw locked. "I don't owe you anything."
"You don't. But I wanted something real. And maybe you did too—for a second—before you shoved it under the rug like trash."
Ayden stepped back. "Stop."
"No. Because I kissed you, and you kissed me back. And I haven't stopped thinking about it. About you."
"Don't—"
"Why not?" Luca said, eyes shining now, voice low and angry. "Because it scared you? Because it felt too good?"
Ayden's chest rose and fell.
He turned away, fists clenched at his sides. "You don't understand—"
"Then help me understand," Luca said, voice breaking now. "Let me in."
Ayden didn't speak.
Didn't turn.
And Luca exhaled—sharp, hurt—and walked past him, leaving the half-done top behind on the mannequin.
The door slammed.
Ayden stood in the echo, trembling.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat curled in bed, sketchbook open but forgotten. His mind kept playing that moment on repeat.
Let me in.
He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
But if he let Luca in... he might see everything ugly underneath.