Chapter 10 First Light, First Peace

• Lidia’s POV
• I woke after barely three hours of sleep.
• No screams. No heavy breathing. No cold sweat clinging to my skin like guilt.
• Just stillness.
• Real stillness.
• The kind I’d never had before.
• The kind that didn’t come with creaking floorboards or the metallic hiss of a belt being unbuckled in the dark.
• For a long time, I didn’t move. I just lay in the center of the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the city’s early light spill through the glass walls like it didn’t need permission to exist.
• I wasn’t used to mornings that didn’t hurt.
• Eventually, I rose—quiet, barefoot—and padded through the apartment. It was warm, polished, filled with expensive silence. But it was mine, at least for now.
• I stood by the glass, arms folded across my chest, forehead resting lightly against the cool pane. The city stretched far beneath me, still sleepy and golden, like a painting unfinished.
• My fingers itched.
• I turned, crossed to the studio, and picked up my brush.
• Time slipped.
• I didn’t register the minutes passing. Or the hours.
• The first stroke hit the canvas like breath. The second like memory. Then more—fire, smoke, shadows of figures in the haze.
• I didn’t know what I was painting. I never really did, not at the start. It was like bleeding—slow at first, then unstoppable.
• The silhouette came again.
• Him.
• That posture. The stillness that felt louder than shouting. The way his voice stayed quiet but left marks.
• Arias.
• Even thinking his name made something unfamiliar twist in my chest.
• I was lost in the rhythm when I felt it.
• Not sound. Not movement.
• Presence.
• I turned my head slowly and there he was.
• Arias leaned against the doorframe, dressed in dark grey, shirt sleeves pushed up, no jacket. Casual, but calculated. Always.
• He said nothing at first. Just watched.
• His gaze moved over me the same way it had last night—like he was memorizing the lines of my body not with lust, but something deeper. Like he was trying to understand how I existed at all.
• I turned back to my canvas, unsure what to say.
• “You don’t sleep much,” he said finally, voice soft, close now.
• “I don’t know how to,” I replied without thinking.
• He didn’t push. Just moved silently to the chair in the corner and sat. Watching.
• And for once, I didn’t feel watched like prey. I felt… seen. Safe.
• That was scarier.
• “You paint like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he murmured after a while.
• I didn’t answer.
• Because he was right.
• And maybe I didn’t want him to know just how right he was.
• He stayed there for over an hour, silent, present, steady. I kept painting, forgetting he was even there at times—until I’d glance over and see him, still, eyes unreadable but focused.
• I’d never had that before.
• Someone who stayed.
• Not to control.
• Not to take.
• Just… to be near.
• Then his phone buzzed, vibrating once against the side table near him. He checked the screen with a flicker of something in his gaze—annoyance, maybe—and stood.
• “I have to go,” he said. “Meeting I can’t move.”
• I nodded.
• He hesitated by the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll bring the villa plans. Floor layouts. Room specs. Textures.”
• “For the paintings?” I asked quietly.
• “For you,” he said, then added, “To help you create.”
• And with that, he left.
• It took almost a full minute before I remembered to breathe again.
• An hour passed.
• I was still painting when a knock at the door startled me. My heart jumped into my throat, but then the door opened just enough to reveal Matias, holding two paper bags and a cocky grin.
• “Tell me you’ve eaten,” he said.
• I gave him a blank look.
• “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. “Come on. I brought reinforcements.”
• He moved into the kitchen like he owned the place, setting down food and opening cabinets like he’d done it a hundred times before.
• “You cook?” I asked, watching him.
• “Not unless it’s a crisis,” he said. “But I do know how to order food and make coffee. Which, by my standards, makes me more useful than half the people in this building.”
• I chuckled under my breath and slid into the seat at the island as he unpacked takeout containers—fresh fruit, soft croissants, something savory and spicy-smelling.
• He handed me a mug a minute later—rich coffee with a swirl of cream.
• “You know how I take it?” I asked, surprised.
• “I made an educated guess,” he said. “Artists like bold things. Except when they’re pretending not to.”
• I gave him a curious glance. “You always talk like this?”
• “Only around people I don’t hate.”
• We ate in comfortable quiet for a while, the food warming something inside me I hadn’t realized was cold.
• Then he spoke, quieter now.
• “You like him.”
• I didn’t look up. “He’s… different.”
• Matias leaned against the counter, his gaze sharp but not judgmental.
• “He doesn’t let people in. Never has. But he’s not cold. He just… learned not to show warmth unless he’s sure it won’t be used against him.”
• “And you?”
• “I’m the friend who stays when he doesn’t ask,” he said simply. “And occasionally, I stop him from burning everything down.”
• I smiled faintly. “He looks like someone who could.”
• “Oh, he could,” Matias said. “But when he looks at you?”
• He paused.
• “He doesn’t look like someone who wants to burn you. He looks like someone who’d burn for you.”
• I didn’t answer.
• Because the terrifying truth was… I’d felt that too.