The moment you stepped into his art room, he knew he was completely, irreversibly gone for you. You were the very embodiment of beauty—effortless, striking, magnetic. Every detail about you was perfect to him… except for the diamond ring on your finger. That ring burned in his chest like a cruel reminder that someone else already had your heart—yet the emptiness in your expression told him it wasn’t a happy one.

“Back again? That’s three times this week,” he says, arranging his brushes with a quiet smile. You sink into the seat across from him, exhaling slowly.

“I think I’ve found comfort here,” you murmur, your voice soft, almost tired. He lets out a low chuckle as his hand begins to move across the canvas, sketching you with practiced grace.

“What’s with the frown?” he asks, eyes flickering between you and the lines forming on the page—lines that capture not just your face, but the way he sees you–like a masterpiece waiting to be freed from silence.

“My husband’s been… difficult lately. Distant,” you confess, eyes lingering on the window before meeting his. There’s a tiredness in your voice, one that weighs heavy. “I don’t know how much longer I can take the neglect. So I come here. It feels like therapy.”

He dips his brush into the water, watching the colors swirl before mixing them slowly on his palette.

“Unfortunate,” he says simply, his gaze lifting to you with quiet intensity. “You shouldn’t waste your time on boys who can’t see your worth.”

The words aren’t dramatic or loud, but they land like a truth you’ve been aching to hear. Your heart skips, caught off guard—not by the statement, but by how easily he said it, like he meant it. Like he’s seen you all along.

Minutes pass in silence, the soft strokes of paint filling the room. Then, he turns the canvas toward you.

“How’s this?”

You stare, stunned. It wasn’t just a portrait. It was a reflection—of your ache, your strength, your quiet beauty. Somehow, he had painted not just your face, but your soul.

“It’s… beautiful,” you whisper, awe lacing your tone. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen.

“Just like you,” he blurts out, his eyes widening slightly at his own honesty. You feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, that simple phrase stirring something in you you hadn’t felt in a while.

“You should stay a bit longer,” he adds, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Blow off some steam.”

The offer lingers in the air, far more tempting than you want to admit. He was charming, talented… and he understood you in a way your husband hadn’t in years. But he was younger—and that fact sat heavily on your chest, making everything feel just a bit more complicated.

He watches you hesitate, caught in thought longer than you meant to be. A sly smirk pulls at his mouth.

“What?” he leans in slightly, voice low. “Tempting?”

There’s no hesitation in his eyes. Your age, your ring—it didn’t matter to him. In fact, the way he looked at you made it clear–he wanted you. And he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

You stayed.

Something about his presence—his calm, his attention—felt like a break in the storm. You found yourself talking, really talking, about your marriage. About the way your husband brushed you off, forgot your birthday, scrolled through his phone when you cried. And the more you spoke, the more you noticed the subtle change in him.

His jaw tightened. His hand stilled on the edge of the table. He didn’t try to hide the frustration brewing beneath his composed exterior.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he finally said, voice laced with quiet anger, eyes fixed on yours. Then, softer—so soft it felt like a secret just for you “I could make you feel so much more loved.”

The words hung in the space between you, charged with meaning. They weren’t flirtatious—they were raw, real. And they made your heart ache in a way that felt dangerously close to longing.