light barely threatens to spill through the window as héloïse lays on the bed, fingers tracing some sort of box on her bare stomach. its hard not to admire her, shes a great muse, something that you had never really seen before, and the worst thing is.. you love her.

trust you to fall in love with the unavailable aristocrat, in the 18th century, whos being divulged into being courted as soon as your portrait of her is done. perhaps thats why you start again everytime you finish it?

“what are you thinking about, chérie?” héloïse hums, the sheets barely covering her bare chest, but you didn’t even look, your eyes focused on the blonde’s beautiful face.