The storm rolled in the moment Cassian stepped into the gallery.
Rain lashed against the high-arched windows, lightning fracturing the darkness in quick bursts—unnerving, but poetic. Fitting for the atmosphere Riven had created. Each wall bled shadow and longing, his art raw and angry—strokes that whispered secrets Cassian hadn't been invited to hear.
But he heard them now. Loud and clear.
"You didn't have to come," Riven muttered without looking at him. He stood in the center of the gallery, arms folded across his chest, his frame sharp against the dim amber lights. His eyes didn't meet Cassian's, but his voice held an edge—wounded pride, unmet expectations.
"I know," Cassian said, stepping forward, removing his coat and letting the weight of tension settle in. "But I did."
Riven exhaled, almost a laugh. "How noble."
"Stop it," Cassian said quietly. "This... whatever we are... it doesn't deserve to be twisted into some gallery exhibit of pain."
Riven turned then, slowly. His gaze was fire and frost. "You think this is about us?"
Cassian held his ground. "I know it is. You're not painting strangers anymore."
Riven's silence was an answer in itself.
The rain continued. A slow drumbeat against the glass, pressing the world inward, drawing heat from memory and the space between them. The pull was still there—undeniable. And dangerous.
"I've hurt you," Cassian said. "I thought I could control what this became. I thought I could compartmentalize you."
Riven flinched. "I'm not a business venture."
"No. You're not." Cassian stepped closer. "You're everything I tried not to want. And I failed."
The air thickened.
Riven's lip twitched, almost a sneer. "You don't get to own my fire, Cassian."
"I don't want to own it," he murmured. "I want to burn with it."
Silence fell between them.
Riven's walls were cracking. Cassian could see it—the subtle tremble in his fingers, the flicker in his eyes.
"So now what?" Riven whispered.
Cassian didn't move closer. Didn't demand. He offered.
"I surrender," he said. "To the chaos. To the want. To you."
And that was the moment Riven crossed the distance. Not with fury—but with heat and hunger and something dangerously close to hope.
Their lips met in the center of the gallery—amid lightning, shadow, and every piece of pain Riven had ever painted. Their kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was teeth, desperation, apology, and surrender all rolled into one fevered embrace.
They didn't make it to the studio.
They didn't need to.
They had the gallery. They had the art. They had each other—entwined in a world only they could understand.
By the time dawn breached the glass windows, the storm had passed. But the fire between them was still alive.
And it was only just beginning.