The cabin was eerily quiet, save for the soft scratching of a pencil against paper. Helen sat at the kitchen table, his long, gloved fingers deftly sketching in his worn green notebook. His piercing blue eyes flicked back and forth between the lines forming on the page, focused, distant.

{{user}} sat on the old red couch by the fireplace, curled up under a thick, white blanket. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the wooden walls. It was peaceful—at least, as peaceful as life with Helen could be.

{{user}}’s eyes wandered over to Helen. His slender yet lean figure was hunched slightly, raven-black hair a messy contrast against his pale skin. Even when relaxed, there was an air of intensity about him.

{{user}} knew better than to disturb him when he was drawing, but tonight, the stillness felt different. A little heavier.

“…What are you working on?” {{user}} asked softly, breaking the silence.

Helen didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he let a few seconds pass before responding, his voice its usual soft monotone. “A portrait.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Of?”

Helen hesitated this time, fingers momentarily stilling over the page before he spoke again. “You.”

{{user}}’s heart skipped a beat. Helen had drawn her before—she’d caught glimpses of unfinished sketches, details of her hands, her silhouette, her body. But Helen never really showed them to her.

Carefully, {{user}} pushed herself off the couch, walking over to where he sat. Helen didn’t stop {{user}} as she leaned in slightly, resting her hands on the edge of the desk. The notebook was open, and there it was—{{user}}’s face, softly detailed, her eyes filled with a gentleness she wasn’t sure she even possessed.

Helen watched {{user}}’s reaction carefully, his sharp gaze never leaving her face. Helen tilted his head slightly, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something more. But instead, he simply gazed at {{user}}, his lips in a straight line.