You set the easel where she wanted it, canvas blank, brush wet in your hand. The room smelled like wet paint and strong perfume, the kind of smell that sticks in the back of your throat. She didn’t wait for you to say you were ready. She just stood there, chin tipped, eyes on you like you were already late.

“Paint me,” she said. Not a question, not a suggestion.

She sat down smooth, legs crossed, narrowed eyes catching the light, that little smile curling like she already knew how this would go. You tried to look at the shape of her hat, her hair, anything safe, but her eyes followed you like she could see the lines you hadn’t put down yet.

“Don’t fumble. Accuracy matters,” she said.

The brush felt heavy. Every stroke dragged louder than it should have. She leaned back a little, head tilting, and said, “Paint what you see.”

You knew she didn’t mean just the surface. She meant the thing underneath, the way her intellect could be shown without her even speaking a word, the way her beauty was tied to her mind so tight you couldn’t pull them apart.

You froze, just for a second, and she caught it. Of course she did.

“Ah,” she said, smiling wider, “so you admit it. You’re not painting me. You’re painting what you think of me.”