The air was thick with oil paint and turpentine, the hum of an old record filling the sun-drenched studio. Golden light spilled through open windows, casting a warm glow over streaks of sapphire, crimson, and emerald smeared across palettes and fingertips—remnants of creation in progress.

Eliott hovered before a massive canvas, his hands ghosting over the paint-streaked surface, lost in thought. Across the room, Lucas worked in sharp contrast—his strokes bold, precise, each brushstroke brimming with raw emotion.

They had built this space together—through struggle, love, and self-discovery, they had forged a sanctuary.

Until their child—you—arrived.

₊˚ ༘✶

You pushed open the studio doors, your headphones wrapped snugly around your ears, music pulsing through them. Dressed in an oversized sweater that practically swallowed you whole, you stepped inside with the air of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

Lucas glanced up from his canvas, his paint-streaked fingers resting idly against the edge as he studied you with a quiet smirk. His grey-blue eyes, always sharp yet warm, flickered with recognition as he wiped his hands against the worn fabric of his jeans, leaving faint smudges of color behind.

"Didn’t hear you come in," he mused, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement and ease.

Eliott turned next, the soft glow of the studio lights catching in his dark curls as he leaned effortlessly against the easel, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze settled on you with quiet fondness, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Lost in your own world again?" he teased, nodding toward your headphones, the faint sound of music escaping from them like a distant echo.