A week passed.
The city rolled on — summer crept closer, cafés stayed open later, and lovers lingered longer on the Seine's edge. Paris had a way of slowing time in June, softening even the hardest of hearts.
Aurélie stood in front of the large window in her studio, a palette in one hand, a brush in the other. She hadn't painted for months — not since her father's funeral, not since the contract with Elio. But this morning, something had stirred. An itch in her fingertips. A color in her mind she couldn't name.
The canvas before her remained mostly blank, but there was a single stroke of blue across its center. It wasn't finished. Not even close. But it was a beginning.
Behind her, a small sound. Her phone lit up.
> Elio
"I'm near your place. Coffee?"
Aurélie hesitated. She hadn't expected to see him today. Their next public appearance wasn't until the weekend — a charity event at the Louvre. Still, she found herself smiling.
She set down her brush and replied:
> "Come up."
---
Elio arrived ten minutes later, two takeaway cups in hand, dressed casually in a navy shirt and jeans. He looked tired — not exhausted, but as if sleep had been elusive, thoughts too loud.
She opened the door before he could knock.
"You look like someone who forgot to set boundaries," she teased.
He held up the coffee. "Peace offering?"
She stepped aside, gesturing him in. "You're lucky I accept bribes."
They sat at the small table near the window. The air between them was comfortable — no longer weighed down by contracts or forced smiles. Still, something unspoken lingered. A question neither knew how to ask.
Elio looked around the studio. "You're painting again."
Aurélie followed his gaze. "Trying to."
"That's a good sign."
"Is it?"
Elio met her eyes. "You only paint when you're starting to feel like yourself again."
She studied him. "You remember that?"
He gave a half-smile. "I remember a lot more than I should."
---
They sipped their coffee in silence for a while, watching the clouds roll across the Paris sky. Elio's fingers tapped lightly against the cup.
Finally, he spoke. "What happens after?"
Aurélie didn't pretend not to understand.
"You mean after the contract ends?"
He nodded.
She looked back out the window. "I guess we both go back to our normal lives."
"And what if this… doesn't feel like pretend anymore?"
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Aurélie turned toward him slowly. "Is that what it feels like for you?"
Elio hesitated. "Sometimes I think it's still pretend. Sometimes I forget it ever was."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "And which one scares you more?"
Elio exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "The second one."
---
Aurélie stood and walked to the window, arms folded across her chest. Her heart was pounding, though she wasn't sure if it was fear or something far more dangerous: hope.
"Elio," she began slowly, "when we started this… I told myself it was just a performance. A role. A duty."
He stood too, stepping closer but not touching her.
"And now?"
She turned, her voice low. "Now I can't tell if I'm acting, or if this is real. And I don't know what's worse."
Elio searched her face. "Why would it be worse if it's real?"
"Because real things hurt," she said simply. "They're messy. They don't come with rules or timelines."
"And yet," he replied, "real things are the only ones that last."
---
The silence between them stretched. Then Elio did something unexpected — he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to her.
Aurélie looked down. "What's this?"
"Read it."
She opened it slowly. Inside, written in his careful, slanted handwriting, was a list. Fifteen items.
1. The way she says "merci" like it carries weight.
2. How she stares at paintings like they might talk back.
3. Her silence — both terrifying and beautiful.
4. Her laughter at things no one else finds funny.
5. The scar near her thumb she never talks about.
6. How she flinches at loud voices but hides it.
7. The way she wears grief like a quiet dress.
8. Her ability to disappear in a crowd, even when she's standing still.
9. The way she listens. Really listens.
10. Her stubborn kindness.
11. Her coffee order: simple, always the same.
12. How she never asks for help, even when she needs it.
13. The fact that she still believes in art, even when she doesn't believe in herself.
14. The way her eyes change color depending on the light.
15. How, somewhere between the lines of this contract, she became real to him.
Aurélie stared at the page, her hands trembling slightly.
"You've been keeping this?" she asked, voice thick.
"I've been writing it," Elio said softly. "Since the first week."
She looked up at him. "Why?"
"Because I needed to know if it was just part of the deal... or if I was really seeing you."
"And?" she whispered.
"I see you, Aurélie. I don't know when it happened, or how, but I do."
---
She folded the paper carefully and placed it on the table. Her eyes were glassy but dry.
"Elio…"
He stepped closer.
"I'm not asking for anything," he said. "Not now. Maybe not ever. I just needed you to know that when I look at you, I'm not seeing a contract anymore."
Aurélie's throat tightened. "Then what do you see?"
He reached out slowly, brushing a fingertip along her jaw — barely a touch.
"I see someone I wasn't supposed to fall for. But did."
---
That evening, Elio didn't stay long. He left with a quiet goodbye and a lingering glance. There was no kiss. No declarations. Just a door closing behind him, and the soft echo of words that had changed everything.
Aurélie sat alone in the studio, surrounded by half-finished canvases and unopened paint tubes. But something inside her was shifting.
She walked back to the easel, picked up her brush, and made another stroke — this time a burst of warm gold that cut through the center of the blue.
It wasn't finished.
Not even close.
But it was finally becoming something real.