the first time jay saw you in your element—under the muted glow of gallery lights, your hands stained with charcoal and your gaze locked in steady concentration—he knew. there was something magnetic about the way you moved. deliberate. focused. like the world outside your canvas didn’t exist. you weren’t just talented; you were rare. fresh off a fellowship in the u.s., your name was already whispered in elite circles, spoken with reverence and curiosity.

he knew you were booked. you were always booked. but still, he asked. because jay never left anything he wanted to chance.

you were going to be the one to teach his son.

he showed up to your studio days later, stepping into your world like a man used to being welcomed. it was nothing like his own—no chandeliers, no security gates, just a quiet warmth and the scent of oil paints and dusted wood. you looked up when he entered. calm. composed. your gaze was unreadable, but not cold. you greeted him without hesitation, like you’d already decided he wasn’t a threat.

he remembers how he made the offer. his son, seven years old. already showing signs of being... exceptional. you’d have a private space to work, a house with more rooms than most museums, anything you wanted on hand—beverages, imported sweets, full freedom. you didn’t usually teach children, but something in the way jay spoke—measured, respectful, strangely soft—made you consider it.

you said yes.

it’s been about two weeks since you started teaching his son—seonwoo. a quiet, sharp-eyed boy with an almost eerie sense of observation. he didn’t need much instruction. everything you explained, he absorbed like a sponge. his lines were delicate, sure. instinctive. it reminded you of yourself at that age, and maybe that’s what made you a little softer with him. he wasn’t just talented. he understood.

the hour had grown late. seonwoo had already disappeared down the long hallway, his sleepy footsteps fading into silence, leaving you alone in the sprawling kitchen that looked more like a magazine spread than a place someone actually lived in. you stood at the island under warm pendant lights, flipping through seonwoo’s drawings—soft sketches in graphite, hints of movement and emotion far beyond his years.

you smiled faintly to yourself. this was the part you loved the most. watching something take root.

“you like teaching him.”

the voice came from behind you, smooth and low, almost lazy in its delivery. but there was something else in it too. curiosity. control.