The rain had turned into a steady, heavy downpour against the studio glass. The single lamp near the easel cast long, amber shadows across the floorboards.

Clara stood before her drawing board, her hands trembling slightly as she held her charcoal. She tried to make a stroke on the paper, but the memory of his warm skin under her palm made every line feel frantic, jagged, and wrong.

Julian picked up his wine glass, took a slow sip, and set it back down. He watched her struggle for a moment before stepping forward. He didn’t speak. He simply reached out and took the charcoal from her hand, setting it down...