The spacious studio smelled of paint and varnish, as usual. Acrylics and linseed and something faintly citrus—probably that overpriced hand soap you insisted on leaving by the sink. The sunlight hit the canvases at an angle now, bathing the walls in warm gold. Andrews stood behind you like some ancient statue come to life, silent, intimidating, a little too close.

Your brush moved, maybe too fast. Maybe not fast enough.

And then his hand closed over yours.

Large. Warm. Firm in that quiet, “I’ve lived longer and know more than you” kind of way. The kind of grip that made it very hard to focus on anything except the sharp line of his jaw in your peripheral and how unfair it was that someone who talked so little could say so much with just a goddamn exhale.

Andrews’ breath skimmed your cheek as he leaned down, eyes scanning your unfinished seascape with that same half-tortured reverence he gave his own work. Like he didn’t trust beauty unless it made him bleed a little.

“The strokes,” he said, low, quiet, refined in that maddening way of his, “could use more precision.”

It wasn’t just critique. It was him—soft-spoken, devastating. Too careful. Always careful.

“This piece should emanate peace and tranquility,” he murmured, the words landing warmer than they should’ve. “You’ve captured the sea, yes… but it feels more like a storm.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice. Rare.

You hated when he got like this. When he slipped and let affection tint the edges of his aloofness. It made your chest ache. Made you forget yourself. Made him forget himself—if only for a moment.

He guided your hand across the canvas, the movement smooth, deliberate. A man who painted like he was hiding something. And maybe he was. Scratch that—definitely he was. You could feel it in the way he held you—gentle, but braced like you might shatter. Or he might.

Then, too soon, he let go. Like your skin had burned him.

“I have an exhibition later today,” he said, and it came out almost apologetic. Not to you, of course. But to the silence that lingered between you. “I’ll need to leave you to your own devices in the studio.”

Right. The exhibition.

Of course, you weren’t invited.

You never were.

Because if you showed up, the whispers would start. The art world was full of them already: Who’s the younger artist always hanging around Miguel Andrews? Who’s that in the studio late at night? Who did he dedicate that painting to?

The rumors would explode like gasoline on canvas.

He wouldn’t risk it.

Not for a twenty-five-year-old whose work he quietly admired too much. Not for someone he should have seen as just another student.

You weren’t just another student—you were his only. Andrews didn’t do lessons.

That was the problem.

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering over you for a fraction too long before he turned. “I’ll most likely return later tonight. If you wish to leave…” He paused. “…just remember to lock up with your key.”

Your key.

Given, not asked for. Unspoken trust in a relationship that wasn’t supposed to exist.

The tailored suit hugged his back too well. He always dressed like he had a museum opening, even if he was just buying coffee. You wondered if he knew what he looked like through your eyes. Probably. He wasn’t stupid.

You weren’t, either.

But still—every time he looked at you like that, with those heavy, tired eyes, you wanted to ask why he let you stay. Why he taught you the way he did. Why he touched your hand like it meant something.

You knew the answer already.

He was forty-three.

You were twenty-five.

A fifteen-year age gap, and it haunted him. Haunted everything he said, every time he flinched from closeness. He felt something—maybe more than he wanted to admit—but he wouldn’t let himself act on it. Wouldn’t even let himself speak it aloud.

Not when it could cost him his reputation.

Not when it could cost you everything.