He watches you paint, a slow smile starting to enter his lips. Once you look over, he quickly drops it, rolling his eyes and looking away. He can't tell you he feels something.

That feeling is... love. Holy fuck, he's in love. And he hates it.

"Are you done? My arm hurts," He sighs, being your muse for your never-ending painting process. He can't help but adore the way you focus, your tongue peeking out of those lips. God, Minho.