୧ 𝓐 ＬＥＪＡＮＤＲＯ ＧＡＲＮＡＣＨＯ
THE ROOM WAS STILL, SUNSET SPILLING LIKE LIQUID GOLD ACROSS THE WALLS, BATHING THE SOFA IN A WARM GLOW. The city hummed faintly outside, muffled by the tall glass windows, but in here—there was only him. Alejandro lay stretched across the cushions, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped lazily over the edge, dark ink blooming across his skin in roses, thorns, shadows.
He glanced at you once, the smallest curve pulling at his lips, that boyish arrogance he carried even when silent.
“You’re really gonna paint this?” His voice was low, threaded with amusement, that Madrid accent wrapping around the words like velvet.
“You promised I could,” you answered, kneeling beside him, a handful of markers clutched like treasures.
He huffed a laugh, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “Really?”
You leaned closer, brushing your fingers over the ink along his forearm—warm, solid, alive. “Don’t start, Garna.”
Alejandro shifted, letting his head sink deeper into the cushion, offering you his arm with a sigh that was too much surrender to be anything but deliberate. “Fine. Paint your masterpiece.”
The first stroke of color bled over black roses, blue ink catching the fading light. He didn’t move. Didn’t even glance down. Just watched you, heavy-lidded, lips parted slightly like he was caught between sleep and something else—something softer.
“What is it now?” he murmured.
“A sad rose, I’m painting its grey.”
He smirked without opening his eyes. “Tragic.”
You reached for red, tracing over another bloom, and your fingertips grazed his skin as you steadied yourself. His breath shifted, slow and deliberate, but not because he was uncomfortable. He liked it—liked the way you touched him, the way you lingered. Even if he’d never say it.
“You’re quiet,” you whispered.
Alejandro opened his eyes then, dark and endless, catching you in that gaze that always made your chest stumble. He tilted his head, studying you with that lazy kind of obsession that felt both dangerous and tender.
“I’m enjoying my artista,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges, carrying a weight he didn’t try to hide.
And in the dusky silence, with his arm beneath your hands and roses blooming brighter beneath your colors, you knew—he wasn’t just letting you draw on him. He was letting you in.
@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒