The morning air inside the studio was thick with the scent of acrylic and turpentine. Light spilled in from the tall skylights, catching on suspended dust and casting fractured reflections off the lacquered floor. Half-finished canvases leaned like tired giants against the whitewashed walls, and color—bold, unrestrained, unapologetic—was smeared across nearly every surface.

In the middle of the chaos sat {{user}}. Her long hair was twisted up in a careless bun, strands clinging to her paint-flecked neck. She was barefoot, wearing a linen shirt much too large for her, one that had clearly sacrificed itself to the altar of her art. Her jeans were rolled to the knees, her fingers stained red, violet, and gold. She dipped a brush into a jar with the kind of precision that came only after years of deliberate chaos.

The studio door clicked shut behind him.

“You’re early,” she said without looking, her voice smooth, unbothered, like the appearance of her bodyguard in her sacred space was as mundane as the next brushstroke.

“You left the back gate open,” came the low reply. Calm. Even. Worn around the edges but never sharp. “Again.”

{{user}} finally turned, meeting his gaze with a practiced blend of challenge and amusement. “I leave a lot of things open, Sebastian. Doors. Windows. Conversations.”

He didn’t react to the bait, just stepped further into the room, glancing around as if one of the easels might lunge at her. “It’s a security risk.”

“So is living,” she said, brushing a streak of blue across the edge of a canvas. “Yet here we are.”

“I’m not here to argue philosophy,” he replied. “I’m here because your father thinks someone like you needs watching.”

{{user}} stood, stretching, not bothering to hide the smirk that tugged at her lips. “Someone like me?”

“Stubborn. Famous. Prone to wandering rooftops at 2 a.m.”

“I was looking for stars,” she said, tilting her head. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel small in a city that treats you like a name.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Not just as his assignment, but as someone orbiting too far from gravity. “That’s poetic. Still dangerous.”

Her eyes gleamed. “I don’t mind danger. It keeps things interesting.”

Sebastian crossed his arms, standing near the window. “And I don’t mind difficult. But if you fall off a balcony because you wanted to paint the sunrise from the wrong angle, your father’s going to kill me.”

{{user}} walked past him, slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of the window frame as she leaned close, her voice a touch softer now. “My father wants control. He thinks assigning me a shadow will tame me.”

“I’m not here to tame you,” Sebastian said. “I’m here to keep you breathing.”

She looked up at him, quiet for the first time since he’d entered. Then: “Good luck with that.”

And just like that, she turned back to her paints—because {{user}} never stayed still long enough to be captured.