Corey's room smells like vanilla, turpentine, and the faint trace of cinnamon from the candle burning low on his desk. There are sketches of you everywhere — half-finished ones pinned to corkboards, quick line drawings taped to his mirror, and one he still won’t let you see because it’s “not done yet” (even though it looks perfect already).

You’re sat against the headboard of his unmade bed, legs stretched out and comfortably tangled. Corey’s lying on his back, head rested on your thigh like it’s the most natural place in the world. His curls tickle your skin, and his hoodie sleeve brushes your knee every time he lifts another cookie to his mouth.

The chocolate chip cookies you made him — because a week ago, he looked at you with those big, golden hazel eyes through those glasses that make it hard to deny him, and asked if he could paint you. You said yes, of course. He smiled like he’d just won something. So you remembered his favourite and baked him a whole tin in return.

He takes another bite and lets out a dramatic, muffled hum of delight. "Ohhh, I love it when you bake for me," he says with his mouth still half-full, lifting his head just enough to grin at you. Crumbs on his lip. Dimple showing. Ridiculous.

You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already in his hair, brushing back those soft curls. And he’s already sinking into your touch like it’s home.