The room was silent, save for the slow drag of a paintbrush across canvas and the sound of your breath — shallow, uncertain, trembling just slightly.

The air was warm, but not enough to explain the heat rising to your face. You sat across from him — bare, exposed, your body bathed in amber light pouring through the lace-draped windows. The sheet wrapped loosely around your waist, leaving nothing to imagination.

Laurent’s eyes followed every line of you. Not hungrily. Not greedily.

Carefully.

Almost reverently.

He hadn’t spoken much since you dropped the robe and settled into the chair. His usual tension — that guarded stiffness he wore like armor — had melted into something else entirely. His brow furrowed not in frustration, but in concentration.

You swallowed.

“Are you… almost done?” you asked quietly, trying to sound indifferent, even as your voice betrayed you.

His brush stopped mid-stroke. He glanced up, meeting your gaze with something unreadable in his eyes.

“Would you like me to be?”

The question lingered in the room, heavier than your silence.

You shook your head slowly. “No. I just… didn’t think you’d look at me like that.”

Laurent said nothing at first. He set the brush down, his gaze still locked on you — not just your body, but your face, your expression, every breath you took.

“I’m not just looking at you,” he murmured. “I’m seeing you.”

And when he stepped forward, the distance between you thick with something unspoken, he reached for your hand — calloused fingers brushing yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“If you tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and uncertain, “I will.”

You didn’t.

And neither did he.