The apartment was a mess. Worse than the last time she had seen it. Empty bottles were pushed into corners, papers and books scattered across the floor, as if Ethan had been moving through the space like a storm.
But what stopped her in her tracks were the sketches.
Sketches of her. They were everywhere.
Hundreds of them, tossed around, some unfinished, others so intricately detailed it made her chest ache. Some were of her laughing, some of her lost in thought, some of her from nights she didn't even remember... but he did.
Her knees buckled. She dropped to the floor, her fingers tracing the lines of a sketch where she was smiling... one of those genuine, unguarded smiles Ethan always said he loved. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He had suffered.
And she had let him.
Violet clutched the sketches to her chest, sobbing quietly, overwhelmed by the sheer love in every single one of them.
"Where are you, Ethan?" she whispered.
Her breath hitched as a thought hit her.
The gallery.
She scrambled to her feet, holding onto the package with the sketchbook and gathering as many sketches as she could. She had to find him. Now.
The moment she reached the gallery, she knew.
He was there.
The rain had gotten heavier, the streets quieter. Ethan Sinclair stood outside the gallery, completely still, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders weighed down with exhaustion. But his eyes… they were locked on the painting in the window.
A painting of him.
Violet's breath caught.
It was him. The sharp angles of his face, the depth in his eyes, the quiet sorrow in his expression. She had painted him over and over again, even when she told herself she wouldn't. Even when she tried to forget.
And now, he stood there, looking at it like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
A gust of wind sent a fresh wave of rain against her skin, but she barely felt it.
"Ethan."
He turned. And the moment his eyes met hers, the world stopped.
He looked… wrecked. His hair was damp from the rain, his eyes... God, his eyes... hollow, exhausted. Defeated.
But still burning. For her.
She swallowed, stepping forward, rain dripping from her hair, her coat soaked through. "What are you doing here?"
Ethan let out a quiet breath, shaking his head with a sad smile. "I don't know." He glanced at the painting again before looking back at her. "Maybe I just needed to see if you ever looked back."
"Ethan... " her throat tightened.
"You told me once..." his voice was hoarse, raw. "If I wanted you, all I had to do was say so."
Violet's entire body trembled, whether from the cold or from him, she didn't know. She had spent so long convincing herself she had moved on. That she was fine without him.
But she wasn't.
She never had been.
Her heart had never belonged anywhere else.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the sketchbook. "You sent me this," her voice was barely above a whisper. "And I went to your apartment, and Ethan…" her voice cracked. "You've been suffering so much."
"Took you long enough," a humorless chuckle left his lips.
"Why now, Ethan? Why send this now?" her grip on the sketchbook tightened.
His eyes, glazed with exhaustion and alcohol, met hers. "Because I thought it was over," he admitted. "But even when I tried to let go, I couldn't. You were still in every damn thing I touched, everything I built, everything I wanted... and I was so tired of pretending otherwise."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, softly, she said, "Did you mean it?"
"Mean what?" his brows furrowed.
"When you walked away that night. Did you really mean it?"
"I don't know," Ethan exhaled shakily.
Violet's lips parted slightly, as if the answer had stolen the air from her lungs.
"I wanted to mean it," he confessed, stepping closer. "God, I tried. But every time I told myself it was over, every time I forced myself to move forward, I... " his voice broke. "I kept looking back."
Violet inhaled sharply.
Ethan took another step, standing right in front of her now. "Tell me the truth. If I never came back, would you have ever stopped waiting?"
"Never," her answer was instant.
Something in her cracked. She knelt in front of him, her hands shaking as she cupped his face. His stubble scraped against her palms, familiar and real and him.
"You can't leave again," she said, voice trembling. "Not ever."
"I won't," his eyes burned into hers.
The last of her pride shattered. She held him, fists clenching his soaked shirt, tears mixing with the rain as she looked up at him, desperate, broken, whole all at once.
"I wanted you then," her voice cracked. "I want you now. I never stopped wanting you."
Ethan sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body going still.
And then... he laughed. A soft, disbelieving, breathless sound.
Because she finally said it.
"Then don't ever let me go," he murmured.
And then... he kissed her. Not just any kiss.
The kind that rewrote every goodbye. Every regret. Every missed chance.
His arms wrapped around her tightly, holding on as if letting go would shatter them both. She pressed closer, tasting rain and longing and Ethan. His hands framed her face like she was something fragile, something precious.
When they finally broke apart, he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing her in. "Are you really here?" he whispered. "Or am I dreaming?"
"You're not dreaming, idiot," Violet smiled, tracing his jaw.
"Good," his arms tightened around her. "Because if I'm dreaming, I never want to wake up."