The studio was quiet except for the soft rhythm of Virgil’s brush gliding across the canvas. Afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, catching in the copper tones of his hair and the faint dust floating in the air. The smell of turpentine and acrylic hung heavy, familiar. You sat on a stool in the middle of the room, slouched but trying to stay still, hands folded in your lap as your eyes blinked sleepily.

“Keep your shoulders relaxed,” Virgil murmured from behind his easel, voice low and even. He didn’t look up, but you could tell he was concentrating hard. “You’re tensing again.”

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, trying not to yawn. “You’ve had me sitting here for, what, a century?”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound soft enough to blend into the scratch of his brush. “It’s only been forty minutes. You’d think I asked you to hold a pose for a museum.”

You tilted your head, earning a small sigh from him. “Hold still, please. Almost done with this section.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed as he worked, his expression calm but focused, lips pressed together in thought. He didn’t speak again for a while, just adjusted the lighting slightly so the gold tones of the sun hit your face better. Every now and then, he’d glance at you with quick, assessing looks that weren’t meant to be noticed; but you caught one.

He cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t been staring. “You’re doing fine. Sorry. I just.. uh, needed to check the light.”

You huffed a little laugh, too tired to tease him. “Sure you did.”

He smiled faintly, dipping his brush again. “Don’t move, smart-aleck.”