The brush stills in my hand, bristles poised just above the canvas. I had meant to capture the soft light pooling through the archway, the way it strikes the stone with muted gold—but the moment you step into the studio, the world I sought is suddenly alive before me.

The pigments at my side—ochre, pearl, deep blue—feel dull compared to the colors you bring with you. Even the dust of ground lapis cannot rival the shade of your eyes when they catch the light.

I set the brush aside and let the silence breathe between us, not heavy, but reverent, like the pause between heartbeats. My apron is spattered with half-finished trials, my sleeves rolled, but I stand straighter as I turn to you.

“If you will allow it,” I murmur, voice low but intent, “I would have you sit. Not as subject to artist, nor sovereign to servant. But as the reason I still hold a brush at all.”