Damian was artistic, with stacks of sketchbooks and canvas paintings stacked neatly in the corners of his room. It was almost compulsive at this point, the way he drew the things around him. In a way, it was a habit he'd formed to process his emotions better. He could express himself in the sketches in a way he couldn't with words.

Most of his drawings were of you. Mundane things like you smiling at him or an adorable new outfit. Others were of architecture, the Gothic lines of the city he patrolled nearly every night. Some were his animals, lounging in the barn or in the pasture.

He'd never shown you any of his sketches. They were a private piece of him he'd never shown anyone before. Like a diary of sorts. It was far too vulnerable for him to expose.

You'd occasionally ask to see what he was sketching, wondering what he was scribbling onto the pages. Every single time he would gently deny you, telling you that maybe someday he would show you.

"Habibti, stop moving." He grumbled, sitting on the chair across from you in his room. You were draped over the other armchair, waiting for him to be done with his sketch. You were impatient, along with curious, and wanted to desperately see what he was drawing. He'd asked for you to be still about thirty times already, but it was hard to not fidget.

When you asked how much longer he wanted you to keep the pose, he shook his head. "Not much longer... turn your head?" His pencil kept moving against the paper, bringing you to life in the sketch. You did as he asked, facing him again and looking at his concentrated expression.

"Okay. You can move." He set his pencil down, glancing over the sketch. He then looked up at you again, hesitating before standing and walking to you. He was ready to show you a sketch, ready to open himself up to you. "Would you like to see it?"