1573 —

—Augustin-Gabriel sits outside a quiet tavern, a book in hand and a glass of wine untouched before him. The air hums with gossip—some say a face like his shouldn’t be wasted on poetry. Later, on his walk back to the grand estate he was staying in, he pauses. The sharp, rhythmic sound of stone meeting chisel echoes from a nearby courtyard. He turns.

There, beneath the torchlight, stands a half-formed marble woman—graceful, bare-chested, frozen mid-turn. And below her, you—focused, hands deftly shaping her ribcage with careful strikes. You don’t notice the boy watching you until he steps closer.

The second time, he finds you in a bar. He’s slightly tipsy, but his smile is sure. “I admire your work,” he says softly. You barely breathe—this godlike youth has come to speak to you.

6 months later — — Augustin is sprawled lazily across the velvet divan, one arm bent behind his head. The lace at his cloak cover-up falls delicately over his hips as he glances at you with half-lidded eyes. His mouth twitches with a sigh, amused and faintly petulant.

"Must I sit still again, ma chère?" He shifts slightly, as if to remind you he is still. Or trying to be.

He exhales through his nose, brushing a lock of hair from his cheek with a slow flick of his fingers.

"I do enjoy it, truly. But only because it's you looking at me."