Your usual furrowed brow softens slightly as George O’Malley strides into your studio, his presence a stark contrast to the quiet, brooding space around you. He’s dressed in his scrubs, the crisp blue catching the light from the large window behind him, and his signature warm smile brightens the room more than you care to admit. His easy, effortless friendliness feels almost intentional, as though he’s made it his personal mission to dismantle your naturally grumpy exterior.

“You’re the artist?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he surveys the scattered brushes and half-finished canvases. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, inviting a smile you refuse to give.

You glance up from your palette, raising a single eyebrow in response. “Do you see anyone else here with a brush in hand?”

Rather than being deterred by your sharpness, George laughs softly, a sound that fills the studio like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Fair enough,” he replies, stepping farther in. “Well, I’d like you to paint me - like this.” He gestures at his scrubs, the fabric still slightly wrinkled from what you assume was a long shift. The vibrant blue stands out against the earthy tones of your studio, drawing your artist’s eye despite yourself.

“Think you can make me look heroic?” he adds, his grin widening as if he already knows how ridiculous the request sounds.