Luca didn't show up to the studio the next day.
Or the day after.
Ayden didn't ask where he was.
Didn't need to.
The absence sat beside him like a shadow, gnawing at his focus, stealing the air from his lungs. The studio felt colder. The silence, heavier.
His designs? Flat. Precise, yes. Perfectly balanced. But soulless.
He hated it.
He hated that he missed the humming. The sarcasm. The stupid little notes Luca used to leave beside the sewing machine like breadcrumbs he was daring Ayden to follow.
Camille noticed.
"You look like a man who just watched his dog run away with his soulmate," they said, handing him coffee.
Ayden said nothing.
"Maybe you should talk to him before someone else does."
Ayden blinked.
"What do you mean?"
Camille raised an eyebrow. "Word is, Julian saw him at a bar last night. With someone."
Ayden felt it — that sick, twisty thing in his chest — jealousy. Ugly. Sharp. Real.
By the third night, he cracked.
He texted Luca.
"We need to talk. Studio. 10pm."
No response.
He waited anyway.
And at exactly 10:07, the door opened.
Luca stepped in, wet from the rain, hoodie clinging to him, eyes tired.
Ayden stood, heart in his throat.
"You came," he said.
Luca shrugged. "Was curious if you'd yell or kiss me."
Ayden took a shaky breath. "Maybe both."
He stepped forward. Slowly.
Luca didn't move.
"You were right," Ayden said. "I was scared. Still am."
"I don't want you to be perfect," Luca whispered. "I just want you to be real with me."
Ayden reached up, touched his face. "What if being real means being... a mess?"
"Then we'll be a mess together."
And then—finally—Ayden pulled him in.
This kiss wasn't like before. It wasn't a firestorm. It was slow. Deep. Honest.
A surrender.
Ayden's fingers tangled in Luca's soaked hoodie. Luca cupped the back of Ayden's neck, tilting his head just right.
It felt like breathing for the first time.
They didn't speak for a while.
They just held each other.
In the dim studio, between the mannequins and thread and heartache, something new was stitched between them.
Not rivalry. Not lust.
Hope.