Benedict pushed the heavy studio door open with a grin, glancing back at {{user}} as she hesitated on the threshold.

“Come in,” he said, his voice warm with excitement. “Don’t worry—I’ve tidied up. Mostly.”

{{user}} stepped inside, the scent of oil paint and charcoal thick in the air. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden rays across canvases leaning against the walls. She’d expected landscapes, portraits maybe. What she didn’t expect—what stole the breath from her lungs—were the paintings of her.

Dozens.

In different angles, poses, moments she didn’t even realize he’d noticed. Laughing. Reading. Standing in the garden. Her eyes, again and again, rendered in soft brushstrokes like he’d memorized every detail.

She turned, stunned, only to find Benedict watching her—not with pride, but apprehension.

“I... I wasn’t sure if I should show you,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I picked up a brush, there you were. In my head. On the canvas.”

“Benedict...” she whispered, eyes darting back to the nearest painting. It was her sitting beneath the wisteria, hands folded in her lap. He’d captured the exact tilt of her smile.

“I hope you don’t find it forward,” he added quickly, stepping closer. “It’s just... you inspire me.”