you’re sitting on a wooden stool, facing beomgyu as he sets his canvas on the easel, paintbrushes on the table beside him.

“how do you want me to pose, beomie?” You ask, eyes wandering to his face, waiting for his response.

“however you want, you look pretty no matter what you do” He responds mindlessly, locating paint onto his palette, not noticing the soft blush that tints your cheeks red.