Haruka Hashida didn’t think of himself as easily surprised.

He’d met prodigies, egomaniacs, and artists who threw tantrums over brush texture. So when he was paired with you for the joint project, he assumed he’d seen it all.

Then you opened the doors to your house.

Not a house — a museum. Gilded stair railings, marble floors, light pouring through stained glass like something holy.

He half-expected you to descend dramatically from the second floor in a velvet robe, cigarette in hand.

Instead, you greeted him barefoot, paint on your cheek, music blaring from the speakers like you were halfway through an emotional breakdown.

“God,” he muttered as he stepped into the studio. “This room’s the size of my apartment.”

You didn’t apologize. You just shrugged, tossing him a bottle of water.

“I inherited it. Might as well use the space before it collapses on me.”

You had no interest in modesty. Your chaos was curated — notebooks on the floor, canvases stacked like barricades, playlists swinging from classical to glitchcore without warning.

And yet, today, you weren’t behind the brush.

You stood barefoot in the golden light by the tall north-facing windows, hair pulled away from your face, holding still the way only someone used to movement could.

He was the one painting now.

You shifted, awkward under the weight of his gaze.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to draw with you?”

Hashida looked up from the canvas, brush between his fingers.

“No. I want this. The way you are when you’re not performing.”

You snorted. “So, dead inside?”

“Exactly.”

You tried to smirk, but it fell short. Something about being the subject made your armor crack. And he noticed.

“You don’t pose like someone used to being seen,” he said, brush moving again.

“Maybe I’m not.”

He paused at that. You — who lived so loudly — who filled every room like a stormfront — said it like it was nothing.

The silence stretched between you, soft and fragile.

You shifted again, this time with intention. More vulnerable. Less guarded.

“You paint like you already know what’s underneath,” you said quietly.

Hashida didn’t respond right away. He was watching the curve of your collarbone, the way the light bent around your form.

“Maybe I do.”

You held his gaze this time.

“I thought this was supposed to be collaborative.”

“It is,” he said. “You let me see you. That’s your half.”

Your lips twitched.

“And yours?”

“I show you what I saw.”

His voice had dropped, lower now. Steadier.

You were used to noise, to motion — but not to this kind of stillness. The kind that made your skin feel too thin, your thoughts too loud.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“If you make me look good, I’ll think about not hating you.”

“High praise,” he replied, not looking up. “Truly.”