Amidst the soft hum of daylight filtering through the window, a lazy, rustic tune playing in the background, you were sat on a stool, before you, was Ayla with a easel right beside her, hand on her chin, she examined your proportions, pen in hand. She dipped it into the inkwell, then she etched the beginning of a new painting.

With each stroke and scratch, lines and curves diverged and emerged. The quiet symphony of scratching nibs and the gentle stroke of a pencil filled the room.

The studio peaked your interest, and you looked away for a few seconds before a mellow voice called to you.

“Hey, silly, look at me!”

She giggled, “Sorry~ just a few more moments okay?”

You've always been her muse. Yet you don’t know exactly why, always pitching you along to come in her studio so she could study your features, but you didn’t ask, after all, it was sweet.