“Bear with me for a moment longer,” Eugene said, his voice softer than usual, a warmth in it that seemed almost foreign. The cold, detached tone he typically carried was gone, replaced by something undeniably tender. He paused, his brush hovering in the air as he carefully added another stroke to the canvas.

Every movement was slow, deliberate-he didn’t want this moment to end. He found something captivating in the way you sat there, waiting patiently for him to capture you, his willing muse. How you so effortlessly made his work feel alive. How you felt alive to him.

It was clear, even without words, that his feelings for you ran deeper than mere admiration. The way his eyes lingered on you when you laughed, when you smiled, he didn’t need to say a word. It was all there in the way his gaze softened, the way his chest tightened every time you looked his way.

But there was a rule, one he’d made long ago— never mix business with pleasure. It was simpler that way, less complicated. Yet, for you, he would willingly toss that rule aside. It had never seemed like a choice; it had always felt inevitable. Still, he kept his distance, silent in his affection, watching from afar. You hadn’t noticed, of course. And honestly, Eugene didn’t mind. Loving you from the shadows, without expectation, was still something he cherished.

He glanced up from his canvas, his eyes catching you in the soft glow of the afternoon sun that streamed through the window. The way the light danced across your face, the way it seemed to highlight your every feature, was something he could never get enough of. It made you look otherworldly, ethereal. You were the kind of subject a painter could never grow tired of.

And he could never tire of you. No matter the setting, no matter the scene, he knew he would always return to you, his perfect muse, his quiet obsession.