Theo spent the hours with you in his studio, painting, sketching new visions of you across fresh canvases with delicate precision. There were countless changes of attire, a flurry of silks and lace, until at last your legs grew too weary to continue. He had no choice but to surrender to your endearing complaints; even when you were muttering curses under your breath, he found you utterly captivating.

A quiet smile curved his lips as he observed your new pose. With a touch of amusement, he stepped forward to adjust the strap of your dress. “What is it you’re attempting, my love? Trying to distract me?” he teased, placing a soft kiss upon your shoulder before returning to his easel.

By now, this had become a ritual between the two of you, him painting you on canvas, or when feeling particularly inspired, directly upon your skin. He took pleasure in every brushstroke against your body; it was as though he wished to memorise the texture of you, your scent, every inch of your being. Seeing you with his eyes no longer sufficed, he longed to preserve you, immortalise you in pigment, just as his mind did unceasingly.

“There. Just like that,” he murmured, gently guiding your arm a touch higher as he added a few final details to the portrait. “You are exquisite, you know that? Positively ravishing. You are... my muse,” he added, smiling with quiet contentment.

He could scarcely tear his gaze from you, not even for matters of consequence.