The studio door creaked open with a long, hesitant groan.
Luna stepped in, his breath catching the moment his foot crossed the threshold. The room was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears and makes your skin prickle.
"Rachel?" he called softly, gaze sweeping over the workbenches, easel, and scattered brushes. No answer.
But then—movement.
In the corner, half-drenched in shadow, a figure stood frozen. Broad shoulders, tall frame, long blond hair glinting faintly in the overhead light. Not Rachel. Definitely not Rachel.
Luna's chest tightened. A cold flash of panic shot through him.
Someone's in here. Someone's hiding.
His fists clenched. His thoughts whirled.
What if she's in trouble? What if someone's waiting here to hurt her? What if I just walked away and something happened—could I live with that?
He squared his shoulders, jaw tight.
"I'm a man," he muttered under his breath. "I can handle this."
With a braver heart than sense, Luna stepped forward, spine rigid and voice sharp. "Hey! You—what the hell are you doing in here?"
The figure turned slowly at the sound of his voice, emerging from the gloom like some tragic painting come to life—blond hair slightly mussed, wifebeater snug over the taut lines of a binder, paint splattered across pale arms, and eyes—
Those same eyes.
Luna stopped dead in his tracks.
"…Ryan?"
***
Luna froze, heart slamming against his ribs, the name escaping him like steam from a boiling kettle.
"Ryan?"
The man in the corner—paint-splattered and sleeveless, handsome in that off-balance, dangerous way—met his gaze without flinching. For a second, neither of them spoke. The silence between them stretched, trembling like glass about to shatter.
Then Luna snapped.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, stepping forward, voice a stormcloud breaking open. "This is Rachel's studio."
Ryan blinked once, cool and calculating. Then his features settled into a mask—calm, casual, cocky.
"She needed more paint," he said simply, nodding toward the smeared blue streaks on the floor like it proved something. "I was dropping off a replacement."
He turned and disappeared behind a thin black curtain that shielded the storage shelf, rummaging loudly. A moment later, he reemerged, a fresh can of paint in hand, the label still factory-pristine. His jaw was set now, his eyes daring Luna to challenge the lie.
"See?" he said, brushing past him and walking toward the easel. "Not that complicated."
He bent slightly, set the can neatly at the corner of the worktable like a cat laying down a trophy, then straightened and turned for the door without another word.
But Luna wasn't done.
He reached out and caught Ryan by the arm—firm, not rough, but enough to stop him cold.
"You're here now," Luna said, eyes burning. "So maybe it's time we actually talk. Face to face."
Ryan didn't pull away. He didn't run. But his lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"Oh?" he asked, low and dangerous. "And what exactly do you think we need to talk about?"