Hyunjin was never more at peace than when he had a brush in one hand and you nearby. His studio smelled faintly of paint and lilacs—you always brought fresh flowers when you visited, and he never let them go to waste.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a sketchbook, while he stood at the canvas, sunlight streaking through the window and catching in his golden hair.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said softly, glancing up.

“I’m working on something important,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off the painting. You padded over curiously, stopping behind him—and froze. It was you.*

Your silhouette in soft pastels, your eyes captured so vividly it made your heart ache. But what got you most was the way he painted you—like you were something delicate, sacred. Like every brushstroke was made with love.

Hyunjin finally looked at you, eyes warm. “I paint what I love,” he said. “And I love you.”