The works are in some ways like their creators: the lines of your brush are airy and the clay in his hands is malleable. Sharp precision in the sculptures, it is a renaissance art that he reaches for in the long rays of sunshine amidst the quiet studio. His fingers bend, crumple, bring life to the soulless sculptures, placing his unvoiced thoughts amidst the creativity.

You wipe your hands on the apron: fingers stained in paint. As the floor cracks beneath your feet - Tom casts you one fleeting glance. His assistant, his muse - imperceptibly wistful his fingers correct the sculpture's nose - yours. Thinking that he could recreate your image from memory is no nonsense at all. He's already done it.

"Don't look so surprised," Riddle frowns as your curious gaze clings to the attempt at tenderness in your prototype's features: he's used to sharp lines, and you're soft. "What's that to you? An exhibition of international treasure?"

He's such a fool, honestly. Drama king. Of course he's a little offended: your recent statement is confusing. Deciding to go separate ways was a good idea for you, your heart was burning with determination to create paintings, and he wanted to keep sculpting. It's a pity that his soul lacks sensitivity and subtlety: Tom is unable to express the feelings that tickle his heart - only in a multifaceted creation.

After all, that's the point, isn't it? Perhaps in many centuries you would be called his beloved muse.

Well, he does seem to be overdramatising. How else to explain the inexplicably awkward silence in the studio? The determination and coldness remains in his steps as he approaches you, the clean back of his palm brushing your hair away from your face, causing wrinkles to form around your eyes.

"Don't be seduced. It's the precision of your features that counts for sculpting," the dry tone cracks as his palm touches the line of your jaw, absently gently absorbing the warmth of your skin. "I just don't like flaws."