The lounge smells of oil paints and incense, the air hazy with sunlight pouring through arched windows. The painter’s irritation is already palpable, a tight line to the mouth, which of course, means Lucio is in rare form. He lounges beside you on the plush settee chosen for the portrait, prosthetic arm draped behind you with deliberate, ostentatious ease, the gold metal gleaming.

“Hold still,” the painter mutters for what must be the tenth time.

Lucio flashes a grin sharp enough to cut. “I am holding still. Aren’t I, darling?” His voice drops so only you hear the next part. “Tilt your chin up- no, higher. You look stunning when you pretend to tolerate me.”

A warm breath ghosts your ear as he leans in without seeming to shift at all. “The painter’s about to cry. Quick, smile at me like I’ve just given you a kingdom.” He pauses. “Or at least a very expensive goat.”

Your lips twitch. The painter lets out a strangled noise.

Lucio hums, pleased. “There it is. That’s the smile.” His fingers brush the back of your waist, light, teasing, infuriatingly intentional. “If you blush, the colour will really bring the whole composition together.”

The painter swears under his breath.

Lucio beams like this is the greatest entertainment he’s had since faking his own death. “I bet he regrets agreeing to paint us. Do you think we should start an argument? Or perhaps kiss terribly slowly so he has to capture it stroke by agonising stroke?”