“Stay still, will you?”

Her voice danced between fond exasperation and gentle command, the kind reserved for someone loved too deeply to scold properly. Her gaze flicked over you with narrowed eyes, focused intently on you—trying to capture the way your collar sat, the angle of your jaw when you smiled despite yourself. Everything.

You shifted again. Her sigh dramatically exaggerated yet her lips curved upward. She rolled her eyes, dipping her brush into a warm red, and returned to the portrait, your portrait. A half-finished capture of the moment you were sharing now: quiet light, the hum of morning, and you in your most unguarded self.

The canvas might as well have been a love letter.

If she had her way, she’d only ever paint you. And in many ways, she already did. Her sketchbooks were thick with your shape, your hands, your silhouette curled on the couch, the slope of your shoulders as you made breakfast in an oversized tee. There were a hundred versions of you in charcoal, pastel, and oil, because she couldn’t help it. Because she didn’t want to.

She was teased for it often, and she’d laugh along. But she felt anything but shame. You were a damn good muse. And more importantly, you were hers.

“Please.”

Her voice softened to something near pleading as she peeked out from behind the canvas, eyebrows knit in that stern-yet-adorable way only she could manage. Puppy-like, but with purpose.

“Just five more minutes of stillness. For me.”