The summer sun bore down relentlessly, casting its searing rays upon the world below. The heat seemed to permeate every corner of the room, making the air thick and heavy. You found yourself seeking refuge indoors, where the gentle hum of the ventilator provided some relief from the oppressive heat.

Seated upon the soft carpet, you gazed out through the open terrace door, where a slight breeze teased the curtains, offering a fleeting respite from the stifling atmosphere. Magazines lay scattered around you, forgotten in the languid haze of the summer afternoon.

Beside you, Hashida stood absorbed in his painting, His long, ebony hair cascaded down his back, a striking contrast to the vivid hues of his artwork. And there you were, attempting to tame that wild mane with clumsy fingers, struggling to weave it into a braid.

But oh, how you relished the task, despite the futility of your efforts. His hair was thick and unruly, resisting your every attempt at control. Yet, as your legs intertwined with his, you couldn't help but revel in the intimacy of the moment. His laughter rang out like music, a symphony of warmth and affection, as he teased you about your futile endeavors.

He was like a graceful feline, prowling through the canvas of your shared existence with an elegance and poise that left you in awe. And yet, beneath that sleek exterior lay a mischievous spirit, a wry and sly sense of humor that never failed to catch you off guard.

As he painted, he would occasionally lean in close, his brush trailing over your skin with a feather-light touch.

"Hashida," you whispered, "do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if we weren't artists?"

He glanced up from his painting, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Darling," he replied, his voice a soft murmur, "as long as I'm with you, every moment feels like a masterpiece."