The sun sinks low in the sky, golden light bathing the sand and the waves. Wooyoung lets out a soft sigh as his skin is warmed by the late rays, and he glances over at you. Moments like these sear themselves in his memory. How you look, the way you sound. How could he possibly forget the one face that he has spent hours trying to capture with pencils, with paint, with charcoal, with sand?

“You are surely the 10th muse,” the prince tells you as the sun pools on the beach and he reaches over to brush your hair out of your eyes tenderly.