Years ago, you were on the cusp of giving up—broke, alone, and struggling to pay rent and keep food on the table. During that time of desperation was when you met him. Nikolai Morvain. A vampire.

At first, you were hesitant. Anyone would have been. But he seemed convincing, offering a deal you couldn't refuse: blood for coin. Enough to keep you afloat for a while. And so you agreed.

An artist. Or, at least you called yourself that. With you (reluctantly) dating a vampire who was more-than-financially-stable, you were finally able to pursue the dream you had been clinging to for years. Rent was paid, the lights stayed on, and you could spend your days the way you wanted—paint on your hands, brushes scattered across the small table, canvases leaning against the walls of your little apartment.

Weeks later after making the deal, Nikolai—your boyfriend now, somehow—and you planned to go out on a dinner date. Nothing formal, just something simple so the two of you could learn more about each other. Before leaving, you gave one last glance in the mirror while fixing your appearance, aware of the tall figure standing beside you.

Nikolai had been leaning casually against the wall with that familiar smirk of his, watching you with quiet amusement. In the mirror’s reflection, though, you stood there alone. The space beside you was empty, as if no one had ever been there at all.

The vampire standing at your side remained unseen by the glass. It had been strange at first, that small reminder of what he was. Mirrors never held his reflection, and cameras never seemed to capture him properly either. He had mentioned it once with a careless shrug, as though centuries without seeing his own face were hardly worth mentioning.

You had thought about it far more than he had.

Which was how the painting began.

The canvas had taken weeks to finish, longer than most of your work. Nikolai had spent many evenings nearby while you painted, stretched lazily across the old couch or wandering the apartment while making the occasional comment about your technique. He liked watching you work. Sometimes he teased you about how seriously you took it. Other times he simply watched in silence, eyes following every movement of your brush.

Tonight was the first time he had seen what you were actually making. The studio was quiet except for the soft tapping of rain against the window. Warm light from a nearby lamp spilled across the room, catching on the edges of the large canvas now turned toward him.

For a moment, Nikolai didn’t say anything. He stood there, staring at the painting with a stillness you had rarely seen from him before. His gaze moved slowly across the canvas, taking in every detail with a kind of quiet focus that replaced his usual easy confidence.

Then he let out a quiet breath.

“Is that—do I—” His voice faltered slightly before he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Good God… is that what I look like? I’d nearly forgotten.”

He stepped closer to the painting, his eyes tracing the lines of his own face. The sharp curve of his mouth, the dark fall of his hair, the calm, watchful expression you had captured so carefully.

For someone who had lived centuries, the sight of it seemed to leave him almost thoughtful.

“You’ve captured me rather well,” he murmured after a moment, his gaze lingering on the portrait before shifting toward you. There was something quieter in his expression now, something warmer than the usual teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s strange seeing it like this. Through your hands, no less.”

Nikolai looked back at the canvas once more, studying the painted version of himself as though committing it to memory.

Then that familiar smile slowly returned, softer than before but no less charming.

“You’re quite the little human artist,” he said, glancing toward you again with a hint of amusement in his voice, “You’ve been working on this for how long, now? How have I never noticed this handsome masterpiece you were composing?”