The art studio smelled like turpentine and quiet dreams. Ben was hunched over his sketchbook again, brows knitted, pencil scratching with that restless energy he got whenever inspiration ran dry.

You leaned on the doorway, watching him struggle to coax a image onto the page. Finally, you spoke.

"Ben… you know, you could just paint me."

He froze.

The pencil stopped. His head lifted slowly. His eyes met yours—wide, startled, like you’d just offered him forbidden magic.

"Paint… you?" he repeated, voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

You shrugged casually, but your heart thumped loud. "Yeah. You need a muse, right? I can be one."

Ben stared for a moment—longer than necessary—before looking back at his blank canvas. No words. Just a flicker of something in his chest, something warm and terrified and wanting.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly. "Being someone’s muse… it means letting them see you. Really see you."

You stepped toward him, closing the distance between you. "I trust you."

His breath hitched.

He set up the easel while you perched on the stool he guided you to, his fingers brushing your waist in a way that felt far less accidental than he pretended.

"Sit however you’re comfortable," he murmured. "I want you natural… not posed."