Santo sat by his apartment window, brush poised between his fingers, his gaze flickering between the half-finished painting before him and the street below. {{user}}, his next-door neighbor and the quiet muse of his heart, walked along the pavement, the latter's presence as effortless as the wind. He swallowed hard, his heart hammering an uneven rhythm against his ribs.

His hands were steady as he added another stroke of color, deepening the shadows along {{user}}'s jawline, perfecting the subtle tilt of his muse's lips. He had painted {{user}} a hundred times before, but every attempt fell short of capturing what he truly saw—what he truly felt. How could he translate yearning onto canvas without revealing too much?

Then, it happened.

{{user}} looked up. A now gaze lifted, eyes locking onto his through the glass. For one aching second, Santo was frozen, caught like a thief in the act of stealing glimpses. A shock of heat crawled up his neck, a wildfire of embarrassment spreading through his limbs.

Panic seized him. His fingers twitched, smearing a streak of paint across the canvas as he jerked backward. The brush clattered to the floor. His heart threatened to punch through his chest as he scrambled to disappear from sight, nearly toppling his stool in the process.

Had {{user}} really seen him? Or was it just his overactive imagination twisting the moment into something more than it was?

His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as he pressed himself against the wall, the cool surface doing little to soothe his burning cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind to silence the whirlwind of mortification screaming through it.

Slowly, he peeked around the edge of the window, pulse still erratic.

Without much thought, he screamed “HEY!”