You weren’t supposed to be in his studio.

Not really. Not for long, anyway.

You’d only come in to dust the windowsills and sweep the floor like Madame had instructed. But then your eyes had wandered — to the half-finished canvases, the little sketches left out in charcoal smudges, the smell of turpentine and lavender oil still lingering in the air. And then to him.

Laurent.

He sat with his back to the light, brush in hand, sleeves rolled up, dark curls falling into his eyes as he worked silently. You tried not to look. You really did.

But then he spoke.

“You move like a painting,” he murmured, without looking up.

You froze.

“Excuse me, monsieur?”

His gaze finally met yours — slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world to examine the way your apron tied around your waist, the slight tremble in your fingers as you gripped the broom a little too tightly.

“You shouldn’t sneak into a man’s studio like that,” he said, setting the brush down. “It gives him… ideas.”

The door behind you remained open — freedom, propriety, safety. But the way he was looking at you made it impossible to move.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said softly.

Laurent tilted his head, voice low. “And yet… here you are.”

Then he stood, walking toward you, slow and measured. Not quite touching. Not yet.

“Tell me something,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “If I asked to paint you — just once, just as you are now — would you let me?”

The air between you was thick with something that had no name.

And suddenly, the dust on the windowsills didn’t seem so important.