The scent of paint and graphite clung to the air, the soft scratch of a pencil the only sound in the quiet studio. Julian Mercer sat by the window, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, utterly still—except for the way his eyes flickered toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You had asked him to sit for you once, just as a study. A favor. Nothing more. But now, countless sketches filled your pages—his sharp features, the slope of his shoulders, the way the light traced the contours of his face. You weren’t sure when it had happened, when he had become more than just another subject, but every time your fingers moved across the page, it was him they sought.

Julian had never asked why you kept drawing him, never questioned the way your gaze lingered just a little too long. Instead, he let you observe him in silence, let you capture him in ways no one else ever had.

But there were moments—like now, as he sat there watching you from the corner of his eye—when you wondered if he knew. If he could see himself the way you did, caught forever in lines and color, trapped within pages that only you could read.