The apartment was wrapped in quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the window. The storm had softened into a gentle drizzle, silver streaks of water sliding down the glass, distorting the neon glow of the city. The air smelled like rain and turpentine, and somewhere beneath that, something faintly sweet—Amelia's vanilla and cedarwood perfume.
Celeste stood in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, watching Amelia with quiet fascination. The artist was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back resting against the headboard, flipping through an old sketchbook. Her fingers traced faded charcoal lines—portraits, unfinished figures, studies of hands.
Celeste knew those hands.
She had held them.
She had been painted by them.
Amelia lingered on one page, her thumb brushing over a particularly worn edge. Celeste leaned in slightly, catching a glimpse of what had made her hesitate.
It was her.
Not quite as she was now, but unmistakable—soft eyes, gentle features, a wistful expression. It was a face Amelia had drawn before she had ever existed, before she had ever stepped out of a canvas and into this world.
Celeste's breath hitched. "You've been painting me for a long time."
Amelia's fingers stilled, but she didn't look up.
"I guess I have," she admitted, voice softer than before.
Celeste moved closer, their knees almost touching as she reached out, fingertips skimming the page. The paper was rough beneath her touch, worn from Amelia's years of sketching, erasing, redrawing. She could almost feel the longing in each stroke of charcoal, each careful line.
"What was I to you," Celeste asked, "before I was here?"
Amelia finally looked up. There was something unreadable in her expression—vulnerability, hesitation, and something else… something deeper.
"A dream," she whispered. "A wish."
Celeste's chest tightened. A warmth spread through her, slow and deep, curling around her ribs.
She sat down fully beside Amelia, close enough that their thighs brushed. The bed dipped slightly beneath their combined weight, the small movement making them lean into each other just a little more.
Celeste reached for Amelia's hand, fingers brushing lightly over hers. Her touch was featherlight, hesitant, but there was an electricity between them—something humming beneath the surface, waiting to break free.
"And now?" Celeste murmured.
Amelia inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening beneath Celeste's touch.
"You're real," she said.
Celeste tilted her head, studying Amelia's face, watching the way her lips parted slightly, the way her breath grew uneven. There was something unspoken between them, something lingering in the space where words had failed.
A pull.
A need.
Celeste leaned in. Slowly. Carefully.
Waiting.
Waiting for Amelia to stop her.
But she didn't.
Their noses brushed, breaths mingling, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the rain outside, the soft hitch in Amelia's breath.
Then—Amelia closed the distance.
Celeste felt the kiss before she fully processed it—soft, tentative, a whisper of warmth against her lips. A shiver ran through her, not from the cold, but from the way Amelia's hands moved—careful yet desperate, fingers sliding into her hair as if trying to memorize the feel of her.
Celeste responded instinctively, deepening the kiss, her hands sliding up Amelia's arms, tracing the bare skin of her shoulders. Amelia's lips parted slightly, inviting her in, and Celeste took her time, savoring the moment, the way Amelia tasted—like mint and something sweet, something uniquely her.
The sketchbook slipped from Amelia's lap, forgotten as she shifted, pulling Celeste closer, pressing them flush together. Celeste could feel the rapid thrum of Amelia's heart against her own, the warmth of her body melting into hers.
Celeste had been painted into existence, brought to life by Amelia's hands.
But in this moment, tangled in her arms, lost in the slow, aching pull of her kiss—
She had never felt more real.