Yushiro stood before the canvas, brush poised, eyes focused intently on the strokes he was making. You sat across from him, trying to remain still, though the weight of his gaze—even when on the painting—was hard to ignore. His hands moved swiftly, with precision, capturing your likeness in a way that felt almost too intimate.

"You don’t have to sit so stiffly," he muttered, not looking up. "I’m painting you, not a statue."

You relaxed slightly, but still couldn’t shake the feeling that this painting wasn’t just about your appearance—it was about something more.