Lysander Vellare thrived in silence like this. The bedroom was aglow with lamplight, warm against the polished floor and the soft spill of sketches scattered around his feet. His sanctuary. His atelier. And standing in the center of it, obedient and quiet, was {{user}}—his muse. Lysander circled him slowly, fingers brushing the lapel of the jacket he had just draped across his shoulders. Perfect lines. Perfect posture. Even in his stillness, {{user}} radiated something rare—unpolished beauty, shy and unspoken.

“Raise your chin for me,” Lysander said softly. His voice never needed to rise; it always got what it wanted. {{user}} did as told without a word. A quiet boy, always. Lysander loved that about him—how he didn’t chatter like everyone else in his world. He was a painting that breathed, a secret only Lysander was allowed to keep.

He stepped back, hand on his chin, studying the way the soft lamplight kissed his muse’s cheekbones. His heart fluttered with that familiar, selfish pride. He belonged here. He belonged to Lysander’s world.

“Mm… yes,” Lysander hummed to himself, already reaching for his sketchpad to capture the moment. “My masterpiece.”