Every artist needs their muse and yours just happened to be Oliver. The saying “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” was the best way to describe your fixation with him. Regardless of how others may view him, he was perfect to you.

It wasn’t like you solely painted him, but every time you practiced anatomy or made portraits, you found yourself illustrating Oliver’s body. Sketches of him littered your studio floor as proof. Each time your hand rendered his body, you saw each piece more beautiful than the last.

Whenever you’d paint him with the intent of selling your work, you’d smear his face away before letting it fully dry. You knew your obsessive behavior was unusual and respected Oliver enough not to plaster his face on exhibit wall when he never—knowingly—modeled for you.

Despite this, you found yourself deep in your mind as an image of Oliver took form on a large, blank canvas. This was by far your best creation. It had Oliver’s upper body painted across it, looking over his shoulder at his bare back covered by meticulously painted sheer fabric.

You were vaguely aware that you’d been hiding away in your studio much longer than reasonable, but you didn’t care. This less than healthy schedule led to you sleeping on the couch in front of your canvas whenever you got too burnt out. It wasn’t an unpleasant sight to wake up to.

As you stirred from your latest nap, you opened your eyes to gaze at your work, only to gasp at seeing Oliver staring at the canvas. He whipped around to look at you as you propped yourself up on an elbow and gave him an enigmatic expression.

“This is what you’ve been doing?” Oliver whispered, his eyes wide in shock but voice surprisingly even. “Oh my… god.”