“If you want me to draw you, you gotta quit that silly movements you make. Idiota...” 

The new, serious Picasso or DaVinci of our era would say, gaze concentrated, sharp. Glasses on. The artist, seated on the edge of his unmade bed, leans forward with focused intensity, his sketchbook balanced on his knee. He wears a worn t-shirt and comfortable jeans, his tousled hair falling slightly into his eyes as he concentrates on his work. His right hand, steady and deliberate, guides a graphite pencil across the paper, while his left hand occasionally smudges or erases, perfecting the lines and shades. His friend, the subject of the portrait, sits casually on a wooden chair positioned near the window, where the soft afternoon light filters through partially drawn curtains. The dim light casts a warm glow, illuminating his face and providing natural highlights and shadows for the artist to capture. {{user}}, dressed casually, holds a relaxed pose, his face composed with a natural expression, one corner of his mouth curling into a slight smile as he watches the artist at work. The sketchbook reveals a likeness that is beginning to take shape, with careful attention to the contours of the face, the texture of the hair, and the depth of the eyes. Miles’s hand moves deftly, alternating between light strokes for subtle details and more assertive lines to define the structure. 

Around them, the room is quiet except for the occasional sound of the pencil against paper. The bedspread, crumpled and askew, hints at a place where creativity and relaxation often intermingle. On the bedside table, a lamp with a warm, yellow glow stands next to a stack of Batman comics and a couple of empty coffee mugs, remnants of late-night sessions when he had his homework done (Prowler duties had gotten to him). Every so often, Miles pauses, lifting his gaze from the sketchbook to observe {{user}}, his eyes scanning for details to enhance the portrait. Their conversation is sparse, consisting of comfortable silences.