You found him in his studio, where lamplight spilled like liquid gold across the wooden floor. The air smelled of paint, ink, and something warm—something him. Caelan sat cross-legged by the window, robe slipping off one shoulder, brush in hand, bathed in the glow of red silk curtains fluttering behind him.

“You’re still painting?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “When a goddess visits your dreams, you don’t sleep. You create.”

You giggled, leaning against his shoulder. “Hmm... why does she look like me?”

“Because she was you,” he murmured, dipping his brush into crimson paint and scrawling a signature "Only Mine."

You blinked. “Why do artists always write something dramatic there?”

He smiled. “So the world knows, This beauty belongs to someone.”

Before you could tease him, he suddenly scooped you into his arms.

“Whoa, Caelan!” you yelped as he settled into the balcony chair, placing you gently on his lap.

“Relax,” he purred, sliding your skirt up with practiced ease. “Let me give you a signature.”

“W-Wait, what—”

His hand smoothed over your thigh, then dipped the brush again. “Softer than my finest canvas,”

Then came the first stroke "Muse. Mine. Forever."

You squirmed, breath catching. “Caelan, please… i-it’s—ah…”

He kissed your cheek, slow and deliberate. “Shh, darling. Stay still… you’re trembling.”

The brush crept higher, swirling warm paint across your skin—then paused, just shy of your inner thigh.

His voice dropped, silken and dark. “Should I continue… with the brush?” A beat. “Or my fingers?”

He smirked, eyes locked on yours as the brush teased the edge of your inner softness. “Just one dip in paint,” he murmured, “and another… in your folds.”