The dim glow of a desk lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered studio, the faint scent of charcoal and paint lingering in the air. Elijah Vance sat hunched over his sketchbook, fingers smudged with graphite as his pencil traced familiar lines—lines he had memorized without meaning to.

You.

He wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe the first time he saw you, when the light had hit just right, outlining your features in a way that made his fingers itch for a pencil. Or maybe it was the way you carried yourself—effortless, unknowing of just how captivating you were. Either way, he had filled pages with sketches of you, stolen glimpses committed to paper in the quiet solitude of his studio.

His hand moved on instinct now, shading the soft curve of your lips, the shape of your eyes. But no matter how many times he drew you, it was never quite enough.

Elijah exhaled, leaning back, running a hand through his hair. This was ridiculous. You didn’t even know. He was just an artist, lost in his own world, while you remained the untouchable muse.

And yet, when he glanced down at the page—your face staring back at him in delicate, careful strokes—he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more.