The Garden Villa had grown unusually quiet.

Golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall French windows, painting warm patterns across the living room floor. The record player Sylus had gifted you played a mellow tune in the background, filling the silence with soft music.

Everyone had drifted into a comfortable lull.

Everyone...

Except you.

You sat in Sylus's lap atop the living room couch, your back resting lightly against his chest. The new outfit you had changed into fit perfectly, yet your eyes remained fixed on your reflection in the dark TV screen.

Sylus's arm rested lazily around your waist while his thumb traced absent-minded circles against your side.

"...You've been glaring at your reflection for ten minutes now, kitten," he observed. "Trying to intimidate it?"

Behind the couch, Rafayel idly played with your hair, carefully separating the strands through his fingers.

"You'll ruin your beautiful hair if you keep sulking," he sighed dramatically. "Honestly, Ms. Bodyguard, this expression doesn't suit you at all."

"It suits one of your paintings," Caleb teased from the armchair beside the couch, where he was busy braiding the lower half of your hair. "All gloomy and dramatic."

Rafayel gasped in mock offense.

"My paintings are sophisticated."

"They're dramatic."

"They're emotionally profound."

"They're dramatic."

"They're—"

"Still dramatic," Xavier finished quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips from where he sat cross-legged on the rug.

Rafayel folded his arms with a pout.

"...None of you appreciate true artistry."

"You'll survive," Sylus replied without missing a beat.

Even Zayne let out a quiet chuckle.

Valko, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the living room floor, his wolf ears twitching every so often as he carefully stacked a tower of Jenga blocks. His fluffy tail swayed lazily behind him, brushing against the rug whenever he leaned in to place another piece with exaggerated concentration.

"...Are we bullying the artist again?" he asked innocently.

Laughter rippled through the room.

It eased the tension—

—but not yours.

"There's nothing medically concerning about your appearance," Zayne continued matter-of-factly. "If anything, you've been overworking yourself these past few weeks."

Rafayel leaned over the back of the couch, studying you like a masterpiece he'd never quite finished.

"If you're worried about proportions," he mused, "you're looking at yourself far too critically. Every artist knows the person inside the mirror is always their own harshest critic."

Sylus's arm tightened around your waist—not enough to restrain you, only to remind you he was there.

"...Say it, kitten."

He lowered his chin to your shoulder.

"If you still don't like the outfit," he murmured near your ear, "we'll find another."

His hand gave your waist a reassuring squeeze.

"But don't make the mistake of thinking the problem is you."