It’s a slow, golden-lit Sunday morning in the little apartment you share with Luca. The kitchen is cluttered with last night’s wine glasses, your half-eaten breakfast, and a sketchbook open on the table with half-done portraits of you.

Luca doesn’t care about the mess. His arms are warm around your waist, and when the music playing from the old speaker starts a soft indie tune, he pulls you close, spinning you lazily around the small kitchen.

You laugh, and before you know it, you're in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed together in a sleepy, love-drunken hug. The world feels far away. He smells like paint, cinnamon, and sleep.

He whispers, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever created, and I didn’t even draw you.”