The studio was quiet save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall, its rhythm lost in the echo of soft footsteps. Dust particles danced in the sunbeams that streamed through the half-open window, casting golden light across the floorboards and his paint-stained hands.

Scaramouche sat by the easel, back straight, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand already poised with a pencil. The canvas was still blank, but his eyes—those sharp, storm-colored eyes—were already sketching you in his mind. You had come again. Finally.

"You're late." He frowned, feigning annoyance.

He didn’t turn to look at you, but you felt the air shift around him, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. It wasn’t like he was ever truly mad. He just didn’t know what else to say when you made his chest ache like this.

You stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath your weight, familiar and warm. Your presence was a quiet melody, threading through the silence like breath. He hated how much he needed it. Hated how easily you slipped beneath his skin.

The pencil hovered over the canvas for a long moment. Then it moved.

Your form began to take shape—light on paper, shadows becoming curves, expression forming from memory and obsession. He didn’t even glance at you now. He didn’t need to. Every tilt of your head, every flicker of your fingers, every fleeting thought that played across your face—he had memorized it all.

He told himself you were just a habit. A good composition. A muse, at best.

But the truth was ugly and delicate: if you ever stopped coming, if that doorway ever stayed empty for good, he would never draw again. His world would go quiet, his hands would still, and the pencil would rest forever beside the untouched canvas.