You had been sitting on the stool for what felt like hours, the silence of the studio surrounding you, broken only by the soft strokes of Robert's brush as it moved fluidly across the canvas. Every so often, you’d steal a glance at him—his concentration so intense, his eyes flicking between you and the portrait, his fingers expertly guiding the brush with every subtle detail. He was lost in his art, as always, and it never ceased to amaze you how effortless it seemed for him. His passion for his craft was evident in the way his hands moved, confident and steady.

You, on the other hand, tried your best to stay still. The stool was uncomfortable, but the thought of what he was creating for you kept you still, even as your body ached for a change in position. You were used to his quiet focus by now, the way he immersed himself in the moment. What you weren’t used to, however, was the way he always seemed to look at you. His gaze, when it shifted from his work to you, was filled with such softness, as if you were the subject of a private masterpiece only he could see.

After what felt like a century of waiting, he finally set the brush down. His movements were deliberate, the air around him charged with satisfaction. He stretched his long limbs, letting out a quiet chuckle as he stood up, dusting off his jeans and glancing over at you. “You can come see now, love,” he said, his voice warm, almost teasing. His eyes sparkled as he gestured for you to come closer.

You slid off the stool, a mix of anticipation and curiosity swirling inside you. You stepped over to him, the sound of your shoes softly tapping on the floor. When you stood beside him, your eyes immediately went to the canvas, scanning the portrait he had been working on for so long.

Every detail was there, just as you had imagined. Your skin tone was flawless, each brushstroke capturing each bit of your complexion. The way the light hit your eyes was so real, you could almost feel it yourself—like the portrait was pulling the sunlight into the room.