Emma, why isn't this section finished? Sharp as shattered glass, Margot's voice cracked across the loudspeaker. The exhibition starts in three hours. Should you miss this deadline, everything is lost.
Emma drove her brush into the container of turpentine, creating waves in the dark liquid. "I know, Margot," she said sharply, her voice strained with anger. I am working on it.
'On it' won't complete a half-empty painting,' Margot said. "Get your act together or find someone else who can."
The line fell silent. Staring at the blazing swirl of hues on her easel, Emma breathed out in a shuddering breath. Dark clouds roiled and split with bursts of white over the almost finished stormy sky. The solitary front person, perched on the brink of the cliff, remained only a ghostly outline. She lacked the insight or bravery to bring him to life.
Her phone rang, drawing her attention to the swirl of blues and grays as she picked up her palette. With her heart racing, she looked at the screen: Lucas.
Lucas: I'm out front.
Her belly tightened. He arrived early. She was unprepared. Not technically—this artwork wasn't finished—and emotionally, she worried she never would be. Fingers shaking, she typed a response:
Emma: Five minutes, please.
She set the phone on speaker and heard footsteps echoing in the corridor. Five minutes passed. She could not always elude him.
Emma smeared in deeper hues on her tattered canvas to outline the man's coat flapping in the wind. Actually, whether she acknowledged it or not, she had been painting Lucas all week long. Every stroke, every color selection, had plagued him. But now she was on the edge: tell him a simple shape or completely expose herself by completing his information.
Lucas's towering form filled the door as it snapped open; he slipped in without knocking. Beads cascaded onto the studio floor, the rain still clinging to his black hair. Removing his coat, he set it gently on a neighboring stool, gaze fixed on her face.
"Margot called," he whispered gently, moving closer. "She sounds like she wants to bury you under that pile of canvases."
Emma's lips trembled. She is correct. Five minutes won't allow me to do this.
Lucas walked to the easel and examined the painting with a trained eye. You will. I will assist.
She meant to send him away to protect her little privacy; instead, she gave him a brush. Okay. Just keep out of the path.
Lucas tucked a stray hair behind her ear. I will take my risks.
Working in solitude together, the only noise was the smooth brush whispering on canvas. Emma created a stormy violet; Lucas put it on the brush. He moved back after touching the figure's coat with one intentional stroke.
"See?" he replied quietly. He is still living.
Emma gasped. Until Lucas shaped the silhouette, she had not understood how naked it seemed. She moved in, adding a shoulder curve and a jawline cut. Painting in tandem, the two of them periodically brushed fingers, sending little sparks up her arm.
Just as a rumbling of thunder shook the windows, lightning flashed across the painting. The storm she had generated seems to react as if it were alive. Emma's heartbeat thumped in her ears.
"Lucas," she said softly, "you didn't have to--
He seized her hand. "I did." You allowed me to.
Their eyes met: hers wide with conflicting hope and dread, his open and honest. Rain hammered the roof outside; inside the studio, however, time moved slowly.
A quick, mechanical scream broke the silence. The lights of the studio blinked. Emma approached the door's security panel.
Fire! Grabbing her free hand, Lucas shouted. "Come on!"
Sprinklers screamed, soaking the passageway in frigid water, and they dashed out into the corridor. Emma's heart faltered, realizing that her life's work, the studio, was just minutes away from a catastrophic event. Lucas ran back toward the open studio door, Emma at his back, without thinking.
Inside, the picture was suffering damage—water beaded on the canvas, staining the new paint. Lucas pulled a tarp from a shelf and threw it over the easel. Emma pushed it down, causing water to run off the task.
"We have to turn off the sprinklers," she yelled toward the alarm panel, drowning out the noise.
Urgency burning in his eyes, Lucas seized her shoulders. "Go; I'll cover you."
Emma rushed to the panel and groped for the override key Lucas had given her. She entered the code just before a ray of water struck the tarp. The system beeping stopped then. The sprinklers turned off with a click.
Dripping wet, Lucas shook his head and let the tarp fall. "That was close," he panted, looking at her. "Too near."
Emma examined the damaged floor first, then the canvas; under the cover everything was secure, but around it the studio shone like a drenched cave. Tears were blending with rain on her cheeks, she found.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Brushing a strand of wet hair from her face, Lucas moved closer. I came for it.
Breathing one another in, they stood in the quiet after the storm. The studio had an aroma of rain and wet paint—a really pleasant one, like recovery after turmoil.
Emma stepped back and shook her head. "We ought to complete the painting before Margot arrives."
Lucas grabbed for the tarp and nodded. "Together?"
She breathed out, want and relief fighting inside her. "Together."
As they went back to work, the storm on the canvas danced back to life. Emma painted the man's face, at last giving him expression—eyes full of need, lips parted as if to whisper her name. Emma exposed her heart with every deliberate stroke, her faith that Lucas would see what she saw.
The last touch Lucas included was a single drop of rain on the man's face, a tribute to resiliency and vulnerability. Wiping paint from his fingers, he moved back.
He murmured, "It's perfect."
Emma's heart raced as she looked at him. We are.
Caught between art and love, they sealed it with a fervent kiss in that precious moment. At first it was mild, then it became forceful, a collapsing of ancient barriers and a promise of something more.
Margot's voice crackled down the corridor as the studio door flung wide. Emma! Are you still alive in there?
Paint-smudged and panting, they pulled apart. Emma glanced at Lucas quickly and apologetically. Margot would despise this.
"Coming!" Emma shouted, her voice constant. Wiping her lips, she wrapped a wet piece of canvas over her palm. Give me a minute!
Lucas gave his coat. I will remain out here.
Emma moved forward, shaking her head. "Not really." I need you here.
His gaze became gentler. Should you be certain.
"Good." Emma grasped his hand. We're in this together.
Emma walked out to see her employer, and they all stood together facing the door. Behind her, Lucas's presence was her anchor—evidence that certain boundaries were designed to be demolished and that love, like art, flourished in the gaps between disorder and tranquility.