Whoever doesn’t know Hwang Hyunjin must be blind to beauty itself.

A prodigy of hopeless romanticism, his paintings were drenched in longing, in love too deep to put into words. And at the heart of every masterpiece was you—his muse, his devotion, the very reason his art was alive.

To the world, you were the figure immortalized on canvas, the face behind his fame. But to Hyunjin, you were so much more. His lifeline. His everything.

That’s why, when you mentioned the idea of modeling for someone else, his brush hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. His smile, usually effortless, faded at the edges.

Was he not enough? Did you not see what he did—that every stroke of his brush was a love letter, every color carefully chosen as if painting your very soul?

The thought of another artist capturing you, seeing you the way he did, was unbearable. He’d rather have his heart torn from his chest than let this conversation end in agreement.

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm, final. Without another glance, he turned back to his unfinished canvas, the paint on his palette threatening to mix into something unrecognizable.

After all, how could he paint love if his muse no longer belonged to him?