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"The possibility," I finish, meeting his gaze steadily. "I see the possibility of you."

His eyes darken at my words, something powerful shifting in his expression. He reaches out, his fingers ghosting along my jaw without quite touching. "You were meant to create," he says, his voice low and rough. "Not to be owned. Not to be caged."

"Was that what you meant?" I ask, heart suddenly racing. "About the gallery?"

He nods once, a barely perceptible movement. "Your work deserves to be seen. To be recognized for what it is."

"And what is it?" I whisper.

His eyes hold mine, intense and unwavering. "Truth," he says simply. "Raw and uncompromising and beautiful."

The compliment washes over me, more intoxicating than I want to admit. "You were serious about giving me a gallery?"

"I don't say things I don't mean, Luna." His hand finally makes contact, fingers sliding along my cheek with exquisite gentleness. "I've already leased the space in Chelsea. Work begins next week to prepare it for your first exhibition."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. "You did this... before. Before tonight. Before everything changed between us."

"Yes." The simplicity of his answer takes my breath away.

"Why?" I manage finally.

His gaze flicks to the painting, then back to me. "Because even when I thought I only wanted to possess you, I knew your art wasn't something to be contained. It needed to be set free." His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "Maybe I was trying to set a part of you free while keeping the rest."

The honesty in his admission makes something ache in my chest. "And now?"

"Now," he says, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, "I want to set all of you free. While hoping you'll choose to stay."

The contradiction in his words mirrors the contradiction in my painting—darkness and light, danger and possibility, freedom and choice. I reach up, my paint-stained fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.

"I don't know if I can have both," I admit. "Freedom and you."

"You can," he says with quiet certainty. "Because I'm offering both. The gallery. Your career. Your independence. And me, whenever you choose to have me."

I look back at the painting, at the man emerging from cosmic darkness, surrounded by stars yet still unmistakably himself. Still powerful. Still dangerous. But now, illuminated by something greater than himself.

"It won't be easy," I warn him. "I'm not easy."

A smile touches his lips, small but genuine. "If I wanted easy, Luna, I would have chosen someone else."

His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head with agentleness that belies his strength. "Choose," he whispers. "Freedom. Me. Both. Neither. But make it your choice."

And in that moment, looking into his eyes, feeling the warmth of his hands against my skin, standing beneath the gaze of the painted Beckett surrounded by stars, I realize there was never really a choice at all.

Because the stars in the painting aren't me.

They're us.

What we become together, when darkness meets light.

Forty-Two

BECKETT

She's still lookingat me with those eyes—paint-stained fingers against my jaw, her body warm beneath my shirt. The cosmic backdrop she created isn't just artistic vision. It's prophecy. It's possibility.

It's us, when darkness meets light.

Something shifts in the air between us, electric and inevitable. Her thumb traces my lower lip, and I catch it between my teeth, biting gently. She gasps, pupils dilating in the studio light.