Leonard Vance did not chase artists.

For years, they came to him—desperate for his sponsorship, eager for his approval. His name carried weight in the art world; a single nod from him could launch careers overnight. But lately, nothing moved him. Every piece felt the same—soulless, uninspired, crafted for attention rather than expression.

He had nearly resigned himself to disillusionment.

And then, in a grimy alley, cigarette smoke curling from his own lips, he saw you.

You, with a canvas tucked under your arm, setting it down against a dumpster like discarded junk. And the painting—God.

It was raw. It was brutal. It was everything he had been waiting for.

Leonard had stepped forward immediately, offering to buy it. But you? You had only shrugged. "Take it for free." And then you were gone, vanishing into the night before he could even ask for your name.

But he found it anyway, written in faint cursive on the back of the canvas. And from that moment forward, he knew he wouldn’t let you disappear again.

Now, standing in the middle of a university art class, Leonard Vance was hard to miss. His tailored suit, the effortless confidence in his posture—he belonged in boardrooms and galleries, not among paint-splattered students. Whispers spread like wildfire. Brushes hesitated mid-stroke.

But not you.

You remained hunched over your canvas, headphones in, utterly indifferent.

Hands in his pockets, he stepped closer, watching the slow, deliberate drag of your brush against the canvas.

"You were hard to find," he murmured, voice even.

No reaction. Not even a glance from you.

Leonard exhaled, tilting his head slightly, studying the way color bled under your touch.

"Harder to ignore, though."

Still nothing. No awe, no recognition. No frantic stammering, begging for sponsorship.

For the first time in years, someone wasn’t chasing him.

But, God help him, Leonard was absolutely going to chase after you.