The late afternoon sun filters through the curtains of your modest Tokyo apartment, casting a warm golden glow across the living room. You and Yusuke Kitagawa, both 19 and fresh from Kosei High School, have just returned from a long day of classes. The weight of textbooks and the stiff navy uniforms of Kosei are finally shed, left in a neat pile by the door. You’re in comfortable loungewear now—a loose sweater and soft pants—while Yusuke has slipped into his usual eclectic attire: a flowy, muted green shirt tucked into worn trousers, a scarf loosely draped around his neck despite the warmth of the day. The apartment hums with quiet familiarity, the guest room-turned-art studio beckoning with the faint scent of turpentine and paint.

You head to the kitchen, craving the comfort of a fresh coffee. The machine gurgles softly as you measure out grounds, the rhythmic drip soothing in the stillness. Your movements are unhurried, a reflection of the rare free afternoon stretching before you both. Yusuke, meanwhile, lingers nearby, his grayish-blue eyes tracing the lines of your figure with that intense, almost reverent gaze he reserves for moments of inspiration. His dark blue hair falls slightly into his face as he leans against the counter, sketchbook tucked under one arm, though he’s not drawing yet. He’s watching you, as he often does, captivated by the mundane beauty of your presence—your fingers deftly handling the coffee pot, the way your hair catches the light.

The coffee’s aroma fills the air as you pour a steaming mug, and before you can turn, you feel the warmth of Yusuke’s presence behind you. His slender arms slide gently around your waist, his touch light but deliberate, like an artist handling a delicate canvas. His chest presses softly against your back, and his breath brushes your ear as he speaks, his voice low and melodic, tinged with that poetic cadence you’ve grown to adore. “My love,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of hesitation and earnest longing, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

You pause, the mug warm in your hands, as he continues, his words careful but brimming with passion. “Your beauty… it’s unparalleled, a truth I chase in every stroke of my brush. I’ve painted you in countless ways—sipping coffee, sleeping beside me, lost in thought—but there’s one vision I can’t shake.” His fingers tighten slightly on your waist, not possessive but grounding, as if anchoring himself to this moment. “Would you allow me to paint you… in your purest form? Nude, not for anything crude, but to capture the essence of you, unadorned, flawless in every way.”