Michael’s POV

The morning light slips through the half-open blinds, pale and cold against the wooden floor. My studio smells of paint and rain. The canvas stands in front of me, untouched since last night. The brushes lie scattered across the table, their tips hardened with dry color.

Kane sits on the couch in the corner, hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned, looking far too human for the man who walked in here yesterday.

Neither of us spoke at first. The silence between us isn’t awkward; it’s thick with things that don’t need words.

On the easel in front of me stands the finished painting. It should have been Kane. But...