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"It's abstract," he defends, adding another smear of paint that does nothing to clarify the image. "I'm capturing the essence of the moment, not the literal details."

"The essence appears to be melting," I observe, fighting a smile as he frowns at his creation.

My own artistic efforts aren't faring much better. Despite years of meticulously curating visual content, my painting skills are firmly at the kindergarten level. My willow tree resembles a green explosion, and what was meant to be the Brooklyn skyline in the background looks more like a row of broken teeth.

"This is harder than it looked on the YouTube tutorial," Max mutters, aggressively dabbing at a particularly stubborn section.

"Wait, you watched tutorials to prepare for this?" The thought of him researching paint and sip techniques makes my heart squeeze with unexpected tenderness.

"Of course I did. 'Proper preparation prevents poor performance.'" He glances up, catching my expression. "What?"

"Nothing." I hide my smile behind my wine glass. "It's just very you. Thorough."

"Unlike my artistic abilities." He sits back, surveying his canvas with a sigh. "I think I've created an unintentional horror scene. We look like we're melting into each other under a radioactive tree."

His defeated expression finally breaks my composure, and laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me—the first real, uninhibited laugh I've had in weeks of nonstop meetings and brand negotiations. Max watches me, his own lips twitching until he too dissolves into laughter.

"This is awful," I gasp between giggles, gesturing at our collective artistic efforts. "Like, genuinely, horrifically bad."

"The worst," he agrees, shoulders shaking. "Pinterest fail hall of fame material."

We laugh until tears form, the tension of the past weeks momentarily dissolved in shared ridiculousness.

When our laughter finally subsides, I find myself wiping tears from my eyes, realizing how much I needed this release. The paint-splattered mess around us—once something that would have sent me into a cleaning frenzy—now seems like a perfect metaphor for our relationship: imperfect, messy, and completely wonderful.

Max sets his paintbrush down and looks at me, his expression shifting from amusement to something deeper, more serious. He reaches over and gently brushes a smudge of blue paint from my cheek, his fingers lingering against my skin.

"I've missed this," he says softly. "You. The real you, not the perpetually busy, constantly scheduled version I've been getting glimpses of lately."

The words hit with unexpected force, piercing through the professional armor I've been building around myself. "I've been right here," I protest weakly, though I know exactly what he means.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "You've been physically present sometimes, but mentally? You've been everywhere but here. With me."

He suddenly sobers and pulls me into his arms, careful to avoid the wet paint on our canvases. The familiar strength of his embrace, the scent of his cologne mixed with acrylic paint, wraps around me like a sanctuary I didn't realize I was desperately seeking.

"Hey," he murmurs against my hair, "you know I'm always here for you, right? No matter how busy things get or how many dinner reservations you cancel."

Something breaks loose inside me—a dam of emotions I've been too busy to acknowledge. I bury my face against his chest, nodding as unexpected tears threaten.

"I know I've been terrible lately," I admit, my voice muffled against his shirt. "Everything's happening so fast with these new opportunities, and I keep thinking if I just work harder, move faster, I can make it all fit—the career, us, everything."

His hand strokes my back in soothing circles. "You don't have to do everything at once, Lena. And you definitely don't have to do it all alone."

"I've been trying to prove something," I confess, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. "That the authenticity wasn't just a gimmick, that I can make this new direction work professionally."

"I know." His understanding makes my throat tight with emotion. "But at what cost? You're exhausted all the time, you barely eat unless reminded, and we haven't had a real conversation in weeks that wasn't interrupted by a call or email."

He's right, and the realization settles heavily in my chest. In my determination to capitalize on the professional momentum, I've been neglecting the very relationship that inspired this new authentic direction.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, reaching up to trace the familiar line of his jaw. "For canceling tonight, for all the other nights. For getting so caught up in everything else that I forgot what matters most."

His expression softens, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I'm not asking you to choose between your career and us. I'd never do that. I just want us to find a better balance—one where we still make time for each other, where we're both priorities, not just when it's convenient."

"You're right," I admit, the realization settling deep. "I've been so focused on not missing professional opportunities that I've been missing something much more important."

"This relationship," he says quietly, "the real one we fought so hard for? It needs nurturing too. Not just the leftovers of your energy after everything else is handled."

The truth of his words stings, but I recognize the care behind them. This isn't an ultimatum or a guilt trip; it's a gentle reminder of what we both want—a genuine partnership that thrives alongside our individual pursuits, not in spite of them.