You hadn’t expected her to notice your work. The sketchbook was just sitting on the café table, pages curled at the edges, filled with half-finished drawings and paint smudges. But when Love Quinn walked past, tray in hand, she stopped.

“These are yours?” she asked, her voice carrying that curious warmth that always made people feel seen.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah… just sketches. Nothing special.”

Her eyes lingered on the page—a rough pencil drawing of a woman’s profile, delicate and unguarded. She smiled softly. “It’s beautiful. You have a gift.”

That’s how it started.

She began showing up more often, asking about your art, encouraging you to draw. And then one day, she said it—words that changed everything:

“You should paint me.”

The way she said it wasn’t casual. It was a request, but also a challenge. You found yourself agreeing, and soon enough she was in your studio, light spilling across her hair as she sat perfectly still, watching you with that sharp intensity of hers.

As the days went on, she became your favorite subject. Every line, every shadow seemed to come alive when you sketched her. And she knew it.

“You see me differently than anyone else ever has,” she whispered one evening as you wiped paint from your hands. “Like you’re not just looking—you’re understanding.”

Your chest tightened at the way she said it, like it was more than admiration. Like it was obsession.

And as your canvas filled with her face, her body, her essence—you realized she wasn’t just your muse anymore. She was consuming the art, the space, and you.

“Promise me,” she murmured, eyes locking with yours. “Promise me I’ll always be the only one you draw like this.”