The clock in the studio felt stuck. Dry brushes, the smell of oil, paint in your hair, on your hands, on your clothes — as usual. The floor was covered in crumpled sketches, torn canvases, half-finished pieces. Anger pulsed at your temples. You didn’t know if the painting was terrible or brilliant. You just knew it wasn’t it — not yet.

{{user}} leaned back, breathless, and let the brush fall to the floor.

That’s when {{user}} noticed someone at the door.

A blond boy, perfectly composed, with a gaze hard to read. Elliot Haines. The campus prodigy. The kind of artist who made professors smile just by entering the room. The kind who never got paint on his clothes, never trembled, never missed a stroke.

He stood quietly at the doorframe, sketchbook folder in hand. His pale gray eyes were locked onto your painting — not with arrogance, but… curiosity.

“Sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice low, calm, almost shy. “I... saw the light on. And I heard the spatula hitting the canvas. It’s... pretty late to still be working, isn’t it?”

{{user}} stared at him. You were sure he’d say something condescending. Something like ‘try less, work smarter.’ But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped into the room, slowly. The sound of his boots echoed in the empty studio.

“Were you painting this just now?” he asked, eyes scanning the half-finished canvas. Thick layers of paint overlapped frantic strokes, mismatched colors — for now.

{{user}} didn’t reply immediately.

Elliot gave a small smile. Not smug — something more restrained. Almost… awkward.

“It’s different from what the school usually displays. Rougher. Real. You paint like you’re trying to say something you can’t put into words.”

His eyes wandered over the chaos around the room: torn pages, a forgotten coffee mug, a notebook filled with scribbles that looked more like screams than sketches.

“I’ve never managed that,” he admitted, almost in a whisper. “My paintings are like photographs. Yours... they look like wounds.”

There was sincerity in his voice. And maybe something else.

He looked at {{user}}, really looked — for the first time, unguarded.

“Can I stay for a while? I promise I won’t get in the way. I just... wanted to see how you do it.”