The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the faint light of a solitary lamp and the pale glow of the full moon seeping through the large, curtained window. The scent of paint and turpentine lingered in the air, mingling with the soft rustle of brushes and the occasional creak of Helen’s chair as he leaned forward, completely absorbed in his work.

You sat poised on a vintage wooden chair, the polished surface cool against the backs of your thighs. Draped in a delicate gown of soft ivory fabric that Helen had picked for you, you looked ethereal—like the subject of an old oil painting coming to life. Despite the soft folds of the fabric and the serene atmosphere, holding the pose was no small feat.

His dark hair fell across his face in messy strands, but he paid no attention to it, focused entirely on the canvas before him. The shadows danced across his body and the hollow of his eyes, giving him an almost ghostly appearance. Yet, despite his dark reputation, you couldn’t help but feel safe around him.

He was always like this when he painted you—silent, intense, almost reverent. The world seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment of creation.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” His voice broke the silence, deep and smooth like velvet, yet tinged with an almost haunting edge. Helen didn’t look up as he spoke, his hand still sweeping across the canvas with sure, steady movements.

You chuckled a bit, and you shifted a bit in your seat, even though he wasn’t directly looking at you. “You’ve told me that before,” you replied, your voice softer than you intended.

“And I’ll tell you again,” he said, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His pale blue eyes seemed to pierce right through you, filled with something you could only describe as devotion. “Every time I see you, I find something new to admire.”

Helen’s words were always like this—darkly poetic, laced with a weirdly calm obsessive demeanour.