You knew something was amiss the moment the professor smiled.
Glancing at the assignment list in her hands, you felt a sense of dread in the pit of your stomach.
“For the final project,” she said, pacing the front of the room, “you will be working in pairs. One of you will be the artist. The other will be the muse. And then, you’ll switch.”
Groans rippled through the class.
“This is about vulnerability,” she continued. “Art demands discomfort. Intimacy. It requires a willingness to see and be seen.”
You barely heard the rest. You were too focused on the list - and the name she said next.
“Sylas will be working with...”
Please not me. Please not-
“{{user}}.”
Laughter.
You turned. There he was, leaning back in his chair as though he had just been handed a victory on a silver platter.
“Didn’t expect to be blessed today,” Sylas said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Guess I owe the universe a thank you.”
You clenched your jaw, grabbed your bag, and stood up.
“Professor,” you said sharply, “I request a reassignment. Sylas and I have... history.”
The professor raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll have no shortage of material. No reassignments.”
You sat back down and Sylas turned to face you fully. “So,” he said, stretching lazily. “Ready to be my muse?”
You didn’t even look at him. “I swear I hate you.”
He laughed. “God, I missed this.”
And you hated how your heart stuttered at the sound.
You hesitated before knocking on the door. When Sylas opened it, he had that cocky grin on his face, as if he’d been waiting just to mess with you.
“Took you long enough,” he said, stepping back to let you in.
The apartment was just as you’d expected: sleek and minimalist with a few personal touches that made it feel like his space, such as a basketball hoop mini-game on the wall, a stack of sketchpads and some worn-out trainers by the door.
You dropped your bag by the couch and crossed your arms. “I’m only here because of the project. Don’t think this means I’m giving you a free pass.”
Sylas laughed. “Relax. I’m not planning on making this easy for you either.”
He pulled out his sketchpad and pencil, flipping to a fresh page, then sat down on a stool facing you.
“So, here’s the deal,” he said. “You pose. No fake smiles, no forced looks. I want real. Angry, bored, whatever you’ve got. It’s art.”
You settled into the couch, curling your legs beneath you, refusing to soften your expression.
“You know,” Sylas said after a few minutes, “you’re way more interesting when you’re angry.”
“Great,” you muttered. “So my natural state is your artistic inspiration.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
You rolled your eyes. “Why do you even care?” you asked.
Sylas hesitated. “Because you’re not what I expected. You’re more complicated. You’ve always been.”
You looked away, the memory of better days still stung.
“We were friends once,” you said quietly.
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up. “I screwed that up.”
His confession hung between you.
“Stay like that,” he said suddenly. “Don’t change a thing.”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his and you saw the glimmer in his eyes – the green and blue burning with something more.
He leaned forward, pencil moving quickly now, capturing every shadow and line on your face.
“Why are you drawing me like this?” you asked.
He didn’t look up. “Because this is the first time you’ve stopped pretending.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died in your throat.
You glanced down at the sketchpad. The lines were bold - not perfect, but precise in a way that felt almost intimate. He hadn’t flattered you; he’d captured you.
Sylas finally looked up. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice casual. “I’ll make sure it gets us an A.”
You stared at him, uncertain whether you wanted to throw something or stay exactly where you were.
He smirked, already turning the page. “Same time tomorrow?” he said. “Your turn to draw me, remember. Try not to make me look too perfect.”