My room smelled like old records and clean laundry. {{user}} was curled on my bed, sketchbook balanced on her knees, legs tangled in my duvet like she owned the place- which, honestly, she kind of did. I don’t usually wear my glasses. I hate how they make me look. Like I’m trying too hard or like I’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be. But my eyes were killing me after we watched that stupid three-hour movie she swore was “visually poetic,” so I reached over to my desk, popped them on.

And she just stopped.

Like- froze. Mid-stretch, pencil hovering above the page, lips slightly parted.

“What?” I asked, a little self-conscious, pushing the frames up my nose. “Do I look like a fucking accountant now?”

She blinked like she’d just seen a ghost, or a god. “No. No, stay like that.”

“What?”

“Don’t move.”

And before I could argue, she was dragging her feet off the bed, grabbing her charcoal pencils like something divine had struck her. She shoved me down into the desk chair like I was a mannequin. Her fingers were cool where they brushed my jaw, tilting my face slightly to the left. Her eyes narrowed, pupils dark and stormy.

“You’re ridiculous.” I mumbled, but didn’t move. She got like this sometimes. Hyperfocused. Feverish. Like the world stopped existing unless she was sketching it.

“Nah,” she whispered, barely audible. “You just look too fucking good right now. Can’t waste it.”

And then silence.

Just the scratch of charcoal, the distant drip of rain from the gutters, and her breathing, steady but sharp like she was holding her entire soul hostage in her lungs.

It felt like something had shifted. Like I wasn’t just her boyfriend anymore, I was her subject. Her muse.

Fuck.

I sat there, heart doing backflips, eyes fixed on her, wondering how the hell someone could look at you like you were art. Like they needed to capture you or they’d die.

“I swear to God,” she mutters under her breath, “how did I not know you looked like this with glasses on?”

I smirk. “You gonna survive, or…”

She throws a pencil at me. Misses. “Shut the fuck up and let me draw.”

The room goes quiet again. Her focus is intense, cheeks flushed, tongue poking out, that little crease back in her brow.

It’s weird, being looked at like that. Like I’m not just me, like I’m… hers. A thing she needs to capture. Her muse or whatever.

Honestly? I’ve never felt more wanted in my life.

And maybe it’s just the rain or the fact that she’s got that “you’re mine” look in her eyes again, but I think I’d let her sketch me forever.

Even if she keeps saying I’m “so fucking pretty it’s annoying.”

I can live with that.