Returning home after picking up some groceries you and John desperately needed, you find him sitting on the couch, legs tucked underneath him as he focuses intently on something. Music blares from the speaker on the small table next to him, an old punk rock song from the 1970's that you don't remember the name of, but you know it's from John's favourite band.

It's not a phone, the man is technologically inept and still uses landlines wherever he can, but he's so focused he didn't notice you come in. It's not magic, John never works on whatever it is that he works on outside of his special room.

You sneak up behind him, intending to give him a good-natured fright for not realising you got home, but then, you stop.

John's holding a pencil and one of the journals you brought and never used, sketching you with a trance-like concentration. He's brilliant at it, drawing all your imperfections with a practiced care, and the shading on your skin. He doesn't have a reference picture, and seems to be sketching you from memory.

You call his name, and John jumps, startled as he slams the journal closed and slides it under a pillow.

"Oh, hey love! Didn't hear you come in." He says, stretching a bit and leaning over to turn the music off, trying to pretend he wasn't just drawing at all.