“Mm,” Simon sighed against him. 

Wille let out a helpless little sound. Simon reached for Wille’s hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing gently. 

“Wille,” he whispered. Wille nodded against him.

“Would you..” he paused, pressing an open mouth kiss to Wille’s palm then mumbling the rest of his question into the soft skin. “Would you touch yourself? I wanna… I wanna watch,” he said. He was grateful for Wille’s hand covering his face, fingers warm across his cheek. 

Wille didn’t reply, went a little still. Simon waited.

“Why?” He asked finally. “It’s nothing special, I don’t know,” he added. 

The embarrassment in his voice only spurred Simon on. He felt guilty that Wille’s reluctance increased his desperation, realizing this whole desire had arisen from the moment when Wille pulled the duvet to cover himself. He wanted to make Wille vulnerable, the way he was when he was alone. He wanted to see what no one else got to see. 

He leaned up to the most sensitive spot he knew, under Wille’s jaw, sucking lightly then blowing air across it. Wille shivered, and Simon brought their intertwined hands down to touch where the duvet was risen slightly, evidence that Wille was turned on despite his hesitation. 

you started testing him without meaning to.

wearing clothes that covered your skin even when it was warm. keeping your hair tied back and out of sight. sitting in corners of the room where the light didn’t reach.

sometimes it worked. sometimes his gaze still found you.

♡

the first argument came small.

“can you look at me?” you asked one night, curled on the couch while he flipped through his sketchbook.

“i am looking at you,” he said without glancing up.

“no, you’re looking at me. not at me.”

his pencil stilled. “what does that even mean?”

“it means i’m not your fucking composition. i’m your partner.”

his jaw tightened. “you think i don’t know that?”

“you don’t act like you do.”

he closed the sketchbook too fast, the sound sharp. “this is what i do. this is how i love.”

“then you love your paintings, not me.”

he didn’t speak after that. neither did you.

♡

you stopped spending time in the studio after that.

when he painted, you stayed in the bedroom or left the apartment entirely. when he asked you to come look at a piece, you gave it the quickest glance you could manage before walking away.

he started painting you from memory. the likeness was still there, but you could tell it wasn’t the same. the angles were off. the shadows were wrong.

one night, you passed the studio door and saw him staring at a blank canvas. his hands were clean.

♡

the accident happened a week later.

you were looking for your charger, thinking it might be in the studio. you bumped the easel without noticing until you heard it — the wet, ugly sound of paint smearing across the canvas.

hyunjin’s voice cut the air. “what did you just do?”

you froze. “i didn’t—”

“you ruined it.”

“i said it was an accident.”

he was already in front of the painting, fingers trying to save what was left. “do you know how many hours—”

“do you know how many hours i’ve sat here for you?” your voice rose before you could stop it. “how many mornings i’ve given up just to be whatever this is for you? and you care more about some paint on fabric than me standing here right now?”

he turned, eyes sharp. “this was my work. it matters.”

“and i don’t?”

silence.

you felt something in your chest snap. “that’s it, isn’t it? you’d rather have me still and quiet, bathed in light, than actually deal with me. because i’m easier to love when i don’t move.”

his expression didn’t change, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the easel. “that’s not true.”

“then prove it.”

he didn’t.

♡

after that, you made sure he had nothing to see.

you left the apartment before sunrise. came back after dark. when you had to be there, you stayed in the shadows, hoodie up, body angled away from the windows.

you didn’t sit in the armchair anymore. you didn’t give him stillness. you gave him absence.

♡

you caught him once, sketchbook open to a blank page, pencil hovering but never touching.

he looked up at you like he wanted to say something, but you walked past him without a word.

♡

a flashback came uninvited one night while you lay in bed alone.

the two of you, months ago, sprawled on the kitchen floor at midnight because the oven had broken halfway through baking something and you’d both ended up laughing until your stomach hurt. he’d been holding you then, paint-free hands warm against your waist, no canvas in sight.

it felt like someone else’s memory now.

♡

the last time he tried, it was early morning. pale light spilled into the room, the kind that used to make him reach for his brush.

you were by the door, shoes half on.

“i can’t promise i’ll stop painting you,” he said.

you didn’t turn around. “i didn’t ask you to.”

“then what do you want?”

you paused. “to not have to compete with my own face on a wall.”

he stepped closer, slow like you might bolt. “you’re not a competition.”

“then why do i keep losing?”

his hand almost touched your shoulder. almost.

you left before it did.

♡

the apartment was silent when you came back that night.

in the studio, the easel was empty. the canvases were turned to the wall.

on the desk sat his sketchbook, closed. you didn’t open it.

you went to bed without saying goodnight.

he didn’t come in.

♡

the next morning felt colder than the night before. you woke early, sunlight already creeping between the blinds. you found hyunjin in the kitchen, eyes puffy, fingers stained faintly with charcoal. the air between you was thick, the silence louder than any argument.

“i’m sorry,” he said finally, voice rough.

you didn’t look up from the coffee cup in your hands. “for what?”

“for everything.”

you laughed, bitter and low. “that’s not an apology.”

“i don’t know how else to say it.”

“you don’t have to,” you whispered. “just show me.”

he swallowed, stepping closer. “i’m trying.”

“trying isn’t enough.”

the kitchen filled with a tension neither of you wanted to break, but it stretched thin until your jaw clenched and you walked away.

♡

later, you packed a small bag. clothes folded tightly, toothpaste half-used, the familiar weight of goodbye that you wouldn’t say aloud.

hyunjin found you by the door, fingers brushing your wrist as you slipped on your jacket.

“where are you going?”

“out.”

“can i come?”

you hesitated, then shook your head. “not this time.”

he didn’t press further. just watched you leave, the sketchbook still open on the kitchen table.

♡

alone in the studio, hyunjin pulled out old photos of you — smiles caught in sunlight, candid moments, the warmth that used to fill these walls.

his brush hovered over a blank canvas. he started to paint, but the colors bled unevenly, the lines shaky and uncertain.

the absence in the room echoed louder than any stroke.

♡

hyunjin sat alone in the studio, the room dim except for the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the window. the easel stood empty—no canvas to catch his brush strokes, no face to chase in color and shadow. his hands trembled as he gripped a palette knife, the edges biting into his palms.

a rough breath caught in his throat. he tried to steady it, but the walls felt like they were closing in, the silence louder than any voice. the weight of every unfinished painting pressed down on him, each one a reminder of what he’d lost.

he sank to the floor, the knife slipping from his fingers. his head fell into his hands, shoulders shaking with a quiet, breaking sob. years of love folded into the brush strokes, now unraveling like wet paint running down a canvas.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty room, his voice raw and fractured. “i don’t know how to do this without you.”

the tears came harder then, streaking down his cheeks, mixing with the faint smell of oil and turpentine. the man who once painted you with such fierce devotion was now just a broken boy, lost in colors he could no longer name.

he didn’t move for a long time, letting the darkness cradle him, the silence swallow the pieces of himself he’d tried so hard to hold together.

♡

the night hyunjin broke, he couldn’t sleep. the weight of silence and absence pressed too hard. he picked up his phone, fingers shaking as he typed a message he wasn’t sure would be answered.

“meet me at the han river. i need to see you.”

he waited by the water, the city lights shimmering on the dark surface like broken stars. when you arrived, quiet and hesitant, he swallowed the lump in his throat and took a shaky breath.

“i’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “i was so focused on capturing you in paint… i forgot how to hold you in real life.”

you looked out over the water, the cool breeze tangling your hair.

“i’m moving,” you said softly. “busan. new job. new start.”

he closed his eyes, the ache twisting in his chest. “i don’t want to lose you.”

“it’s not that simple,” you said, turning to face him. “but maybe… maybe it’s a chance to find something new. apart.”

he nodded slowly, tears glistening under the city lights. “i don’t know if i can fix this. but i want to try.”

you hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing his.

“maybe that’s enough, for now.”

the river carried away your whispered promises, the future uncertain but weighted with the fragile hope of something beyond the silence.

It’s late afternoon when golden light spills through the leaves, bleeding warmth into the pavement and softening the city’s edges. The streets are quieter here, the world's noise muffled beneath the hush of wind and distant traffic. A few pigeons peck at crumbs nearby. A cyclist glides past with headphones in.

You’re seated alone on a weathered park bench near a sprawling wall mural, tucked away from the buzz of the main street. A dog-eared paperback rests in your lap, thumb idly hooked between the pages you’ve read and re-read too many times. Music hums in your ears, low and steady, a private soundtrack to the stillness around you. You’re not doing anything in particular—just being.

Then you feel it—that prickling awareness that someone is watching. You glance up and scan the quiet walkway ahead, eyes drifting over a row of street vendors packing up for the day and the flicker of golden hour across shop windows.

And then you see him.

He’s standing across the street like he’s been frozen in place. Tall, angular, with wild red hair that gleams faintly in the sun. His expression holds a haunted intensity—wide-eyed focus, lips parted just slightly like he’s in the middle of remembering something important. A sketchbook is cradled in one arm and a pencil dances in the other. His hand moves fast—reckless strokes, looping lines. He keeps glancing up.

At you.

You stiffen a little, brows furrowing. His gaze doesn’t break when you look directly at him. His hand speeds up like he’s worried the moment will disappear before he captures it. It’s not the kind of stare you get walking down a street. Not flirtatious. Not casual. This is different. Intent. Hungry. The kind of stare artists give when they’ve found something—someone—they weren’t supposed to.

You shift on the bench, unsure. His attention is too steady, too intimate for a stranger. For a second, you wonder if you should get up. Walk away. But curiosity roots you in place.

And then he moves. He crosses the street with long, loose strides, like gravity pulled him out of whatever world he was drawing and back into this one. He stops in front of you without hesitation, sketchbook tucked close to his chest, fingers stained with charcoal and blue-green dried paint. There’s a light in his eyes. Manic. Unapologetic.

You pull your earbud out slowly, unsure of what to expect.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless in a way that makes it feel like he ran here from another century. “This is completely unhinged of me…”

He pauses to brush his hair back with the side of his wrist smearing charcoal on his cheek like he forgot he'd been working before he spotted you.

“…but you have a face that doesn’t belong to this century.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” he says, flipping the sketchbook around and showing you the page like a magician revealing a trick.

And there you are. A rough, messy sketch—but the likeness is there. The curve of your brow. The shadow at your collarbone. The way you must have looked a few minutes ago, entirely unaware. It’s not perfect. Not polished. But it’s… intimate. Like he saw something even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.

“Let me paint you,” he says next, quieter now, the rush fading into a more grounded feeling. “Just once. I need to get this out of my head before it drives me insane.”

You stare at him. "You want to paint me?"

“Desperately.” His answer is instant. Sincere. “You're the most compelling thing I’ve seen in months. Maybe years.”

There's no sleaziness in how he says it—just a sort of breathless awe. Like he's not hitting on you at all, just caught in the throes of a vision he can’t unsee.

You glance down at the sketch again, then back at him. He holds your gaze. And strangely, you hold it right back.

Everything in you tells you this is ridiculous. You don’t know him. He could be unstable, or worse. But there’s a pull in him—raw, chaotic, and weirdly honest—that feels impossible to ignore. A part of you wants to know what he sees when he looks at you like that.

You sigh. “One painting. That’s it.” 

His face lights up, all sharp teeth and delighted wonder. He looks like you just saved him from drowning.

“Deal,” he breathes. “I’ll make it worth your time. Promise.”

He rips a page from the back of his sketchbook, scribbles something down with the corner of his lip caught between his teeth—an address, his name and number, a small sketch for flair—and hands it to you with a flourish.

“Come by tomorrow,” he says. “My studio’s chaotic, but it’s got soul.”

You tuck the paper into your book and rise slowly. You’re unsure whether you’re making a terrible mistake or the beginning of something you’ll never forget.  As you walk away, you can feel his gaze lingering. Just before rounding the corner, you peek back. He’s already sketching again—like your face is still there, lingering in the air long after you’ve gone.

The next day, you find yourself in front of a converted loft tucked above a secondhand bookshop. The sign is faded, half the letters missing, but the door buzzes open as soon as you press the button beside it.

The stairwell smells like dust and oil paint. Every step creaks beneath your feet, the sound echoing in the quiet. You pass a rusted bike on the landing, the chipped, worn frame leaning awkwardly against the wall. A stained-glass window lets in fractured sunlight, casting patterns across the floor that feel almost deliberate, like they're hiding something. You can feel your heartbeat speeding up as you climb higher.

When you reach the top floor, a door swings open before you can even knock.

Tendou stands there barefoot, grinning. He’s already got paint on his cheek, and charcoal on his hands. The scent of turpentine clings to the air behind him like incense.

“Welcome to my madness,” he says, sweeping one arm behind him like he’s introducing a stage. “Sorry in advance for the mess—art’s allergic to being neat.”

You step inside and pause. His studio is everything you imagined and so much more. Organized chaos. Canvases lean against every surface—half-finished portraits, violent abstracts, eerie eyes that seem to follow you as you walk by. The floor is littered with paint tubes, brushes, palette knives, and crumpled rags. Somehow, it doesn’t feel messy. Just… alive.

There’s music playing softly from a vintage speaker in the corner—a language that you think is French, dreamy, impossible to place. It curls in the air like smoke, wrapping itself around you in a way that makes you want to shrink back, but you stay rooted in place. You wonder for a moment if you’ve made a mistake. The sketch was one thing, but this? This is real. Personal.

“Where do I sit?” you ask, voice quieter than you intended.

“Anywhere the light hits you right,” he replies, already scanning the room. His eyes land on the window, where sunlight spills across the floor like a spotlight. “To be fair, that’s kind of everywhere.”

You swallow, still unsure. He pulls over a wooden chair with splotches of paint on it and sets it near the light. You sit—spine straight, hands folded in your lap, suddenly hyperaware of your body. Your hair brushes against your collarbone, and you feel exposed. Vulnerable. You tell yourself this is just a painting. But it feels like more than that. Like you’ve stepped into a moment you can’t escape.

Tendou doesn’t say anything right away. He sets up in silence—choosing a canvas, wetting brushes, mixing paint with practiced, unhurried care. He hums to himself occasionally, a low, tuneless rhythm that calms you more than you expect. It makes the tension in your body ease, if only for a second.

But when he starts to paint, The shift is immediate. The chaos around him melts away, leaving only the two of you. He’s no longer scattered, and chaotic. He’s still. Focused. His gaze never wavers from you. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re his whole world. Every brushstroke feels deliberate.

You try not to fidget. Try not to notice how tightly your hands are clasped in your lap. But his focus is unnerving. It makes you feel small, a way you haven’t let anyone see you in a long time.

Then, he speaks. “You don’t have to hold your breath, you know,” he doesn’t look up. “This isn’t a performance. I just want… you.”

It should be unnerving. But it isn’t. His voice is soft and reassuring like the room has suddenly quieted to make space for just the two of you. He teases you gently after that, making light of your expression, saying it's too regal, joking that you look like you're trying to read his mind. You laugh once, a quiet sound that surprises you. It softens the air between you both, and for the first time since you stepped into the room, you relax.

An hour passes. 

Then another.

You fall into a rhythm—silences that aren’t awkward, questions that make no sense but feel strangely revealing.

“What color do you think your thoughts are today?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours.

“Grayish blue,” you murmur. “With silver in the middle.”

He hums in approval.

Another time, he pauses mid-stroke and asks, “What do you do when no one’s looking?”

You blink. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind that tells me what kind of person I’m painting.”

You think for a moment. “I read the endings of books.”

He smiles, a little crooked. “So nothing can surprise you. That makes more sense than you think.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?” He shrugs, eyes flicking toward his palette. “I make messes no one else has to clean up.”

You let out a soft laugh.

He glances up, lips twitching like he wants to smile but doesn’t. Not fully. Then his eyes return to the canvas—and to you.

Sometimes, he stares too long. But it’s never creepy. It’s reverent as if he’s searching for something sacred in your silence—your stillness—your unguarded self.

By the third hour, you’re no longer performing stillness—you are still. One leg curled beneath you, head tilted toward the window, fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of your sleeve. You forget you’re being painted.

You are simply just existing.

When he finally stops, it’s sudden. He steps back from the easel, brush hanging limply at his side. He’s breathing heavier than before. “That’s it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. 

Then, quieter still—so soft you almost miss it— “The first of many.”

You blink, uncertain. “What was that?”

But Tendou just shakes his head quickly, brushing his hair back with a paint-smeared hand. “Oh, nothing.”

You rise slowly, brushing your hands down your sides, the stiffness in your joints causes you to realize just how long you’ve been still. You drift toward the easel with quiet steps, drawn by the magnetic pull of being seen. What did he capture? What version of you exists on that canvas now? But before you can peer over the edge, his hand lifts, palm out, stopping you. 

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the painting and back to you. “Because it’s… not ready.”

You don’t know what that means, but you don’t push. You nod once, slowly, and begin gathering your things. Just as you reach for the door, his voice stops you—this time without the theatrical flair. It’s smaller. Almost hesitant.

“Same time next week?”

You turn, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Again?” You tilt your head. “This is just for the one painting, right?”

He grins, but there’s an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Right. Of course. Just the one.”

A few days pass. You expect it to be over after the second session—one painting, just like you agreed. You tell yourself it was a strange, a lovely little detour in your usual life. Nothing more. An odd moment. A story to tell one day. But then your phone buzzes.

A message from a number saved only as: Satori 🎨

I need to see you again. Something’s missing in the painting.

You stare at the screen for a long time. There’s no pressure in the words, but they settle into your chest like a stone dropped in water. You read it once. Twice. A third time. There’s a tug you can’t explain. Maybe it’s the memory of his voice, low and reverent. The way he looked at you like you were some impossible person who wasn’t supposed to exist.

You type out a reply.

One more. That’s it.

He sends nothing back, but you know he’s already preparing the chair.

When you walk into his studio again, the light is different—brighter, sharper. So is he. He’s more animated this time, his energy buzzing just beneath the surface. His brushstrokes are faster, messier. He mutters louder.

“There’s a version of you I didn’t capture,” he says, brow furrowed as he dabs paint on the canvas. “It was right there… and then it vanished.”

You don’t know what to say, so you sit. And let him look. You think that’ll be the end of it. But two days later, your phone lights up again.

The way you looked when you were thinking—can you come in again?

You almost say no. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. But you don’t.

You go again.

And again.

And again.

Each session is different.

Some are quiet—just the sound of brushes swishing through water, the soft lilt of music, the silent language of observation. You sit still and let him study you like a puzzle he’s both terrified and thrilled to solve. Other days are chaotic—his energy erratic, his eyes wild. He circles the easel like a storm, stopping only to stare at you with a kind of hunger that makes your skin feel too tight. He speaks more. Or maybe you just start listening harder.

You begin to notice things.

How he talks to the canvas when he thinks you’re not listening—soft, adoring words like he’s coaxing a memory into being. How his hand always pauses just before painting your mouth, brush hovering mid-air. He tells you not to speak—not yet—and in that stillness, you see it: the way he holds his breath, like getting it wrong would ruin everything.                                                                                       How the energy in the studio shifts the second you walk in: less scattered and more intentional. Like your presence flips some invisible switch, and inspiration doesn’t exist in the absence of you.

You tell yourself it’s just flattery. A strange creative process. A passionate artist chasing a fleeting spark of inspiration. You’re only helping him finish what he started—that’s all. Tying up loose ends. You owe him nothing. And yet… you keep returning.

Because every time you leave, something lingers. In the soles of your feet. In the curve of your spine. In the hum beneath your skin. It doesn't quiet until you step back into his studio. Yet, he still doesn’t show you the painting.

Unbeknownst to you, while you’re gone, he paints more. So many more. His studio is slowly becoming a shrine. Dozens of canvases lean against the walls faces half-done and fully formed, each one a version of you—different, yet all the same.

One joyful — hair tossed back, laughter captured mid-breath. One quiet — head bowed, fingers curled in your lap. One defiant — eyes blazing, mid-gesture, like you were saying no to something he couldn’t hear. One vulnerable — curled in on yourself, expression soft, almost delicately childlike.

He doesn’t show you any of them. Not yet. He just keeps asking you to come back.

One last session.

You laugh to yourself—because he always says that. But it’s never the last. You don’t agree out of curiosity anymore. You agree because somewhere, deep down—you want to know how he sees you.

As time keeps moving. Life keeps intruding. And one morning, it all spills over.

You don’t know why a measly phone affected you so much. It’s been months; months of silence, of pretending that chapter of your life was closed. And then today, of all days, he remembers he has a daughter.

One call. No apology. His voice on the other end was casual as if your last fight never happened. He didn’t even sound like he’d missed you. He didn’t sound like he’d even noticed the months between you. His words were almost indifferent like he was checking off an item on a list. 

The call leaves a strange weight in the pit of your stomach. You can’t quite name it. It’s not anger or disappointment. It’s a heavy, lingering void, and you hate how your father got under your skin and left you behind in the same forgotten corner.

You don’t mean to cry on the way to the studio. But everything feels heavier today—the air, the noise, even the sunlight. You think about canceling. About pretending you never saw his last message.

But instead, you show up.

You knock, and the door opens before you can move your hand from the doorknob. Tendou stands there, eyes soft.  “You’re here,” he says, a quiet relief in his voice.

You give him a small smile but the weight of your father’s voice still lingers in your thoughts. 

His eyes roam your face yet he doesn’t ask a single question. No jokes. No grin. No questions. He just steps aside and gestures toward your usual seat.

You sit and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This place is different. This is a space where you can simply let go.

The room feels quieter today like even the mess around you is holding its breath. A new record plays in the background—a low, crackling waltz—slow, old, and quite sad. Tendou doesn't speak. Doesn’t offer a distraction. He just picks up his pencil and starts to sketch.

You fidget with your sleeve. Your jaw stays tight. You can feel it; the emotion you’ve been trying to outrun clinging to the edges of your posture. But you stay still. Or you try to.

Tendou watches you with that same quiet focus, but today, something’s shifted. His usual manic spark is gone. What remains is quieter. Gentler. Like he wants to protect you but doesn’t know how. He sketches with soft, deliberate strokes, glancing up only when you shift or blink too hard. His expression doesn’t change. But the movement of his hand tells you he’s seeing everything.

When he finishes, he sets the pencil down with a quiet breath. He doesn’t turn the canvas. Doesn’t show you what he’s captured. Instead, he speaks—softly, like the words weren’t meant to be said aloud. “You don’t realize how much emotion lives in your silence.”

You look at him. Really look. And for the first time, you feel seen in a way that almost hurts. He finally turns the canvas around. It’s not just a portrait. It’s not even really you, and yet—it’s you.

Your sadness. Your strength. The weight on your shoulders. The way your hands clutch the fabric to hold yourself together. It’s raw. Unforgiving. Honest. You stare for too long, overwhelmed by how much of you is reflected in the brushstrokes.

Then ask, quietly: “Is that really how you see me?”

His eyes meet yours. “That’s how you are,” he says. “Even when you try to hide it.”

Words gather at the back of your throat, but none feel right—they stay trapped there, lodged between your chest and your tongue. You look down, blinking fast, the rush of emotion too thick to untangle. Your hand curls around the edge of your sleeve again, a tiny movement, hoping it might ground you, anchor you.

That’s when he steps forward—slowly, carefully, like you’re made of glass and he’s afraid of breaking you. He crouches beside the chair, one knee on the floor, and looks at you—eyes intent, knowing. And then, without asking, he reaches for your hand.

His fingers brush yours—lightly at first. Charcoal-stained, warm. They don’t close around your hand, not yet. They hover there, lingering just long enough for you to feel the heat of his touch. You don’t pull away. You don’t move. You simply stay still—because in this fragile moment, you feel like moving would ruin it.

 “You were shaking,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

You don’t say anything. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, featherlight, a gentle caress that brings a sense of comfort you didn’t realize you needed. Then he lets go— like it cost him something to touch you and even more to stop. 

You leave that day with your chest too full and your hands too empty. Shaken—by the painting. By him. By the weight of feeling exposed, being touched too gently, and not knowing what to do with either.

The days blur. 

You stop checking your reflection in the morning. You ignore his messages. You don’t go to the studio. You tell yourself you need space—to breathe, to think, to figure out what this is. But the truth is simpler. You’re avoiding him—avoiding the weight of being seen again.

More than once, you tap Satori’s name in your messages thumb poised to type. But the words never come. You’re afraid of what might unravel the moment you face him.

And then one afternoon, without thinking, you go back. You don’t text ahead. You don’t knock. You just walk in. The door creaks open with that familiar sound, and the scent of oil paint rushes out. He doesn’t hear you at first. He’s at the easel, paintbrush in hand, back turned, shoulders tense. But he’s not painting you.

It’s an abstract piece—violent colors, and thick lines, an attempt to paint emotion itself. A desperate effort to forget something. Or someone. And failing.

Your gaze drifts around the studio. It’s still the same chaotic mess. The same humming quiet. But the atmosphere has shifted. In the corner, partially hidden behind a sheet, you spot a stack of frames—tall, uneven, slightly leaning. You’ve never noticed them before.

A pull of curiosity urges you forward. You cross the room, slowly, fingers brushing the fabric aside. And there they are. Dozens of canvases.

All of you.

You don’t touch them. Just… look.

One where you’re laughing—bright, wild, sunlit. One where you’re crying—quiet, small, the shadow of your hand pressed to your cheek. One where you’re angry—eyes blazing, hair was undone. One where you look like you’re about to say something important. One where you look like you’ve already said too much.

They aren’t romanticized. They aren’t idealized. They’re honest. It’s witnessing someone fall in love with every version of you, piece by piece, without ever saying the words. 

You don’t realize you’ve spoken until your voice breaks the silence: “You said it would be one.”

He turns, startled—but not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just exposed. His hand falls to his side, the paintbrush forgotten.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly: “I know.”

“But when I finished the first portrait… I didn’t want it to be over.” His voice stays soft, but something in it cracks open. “So I kept asking you to show up. And...you did.”

He meets your eyes, steady now.

“And every time you walked through that door… I saw a different version of you I knew I needed to capture.”

You feel it then. The full weight of it. All of it. Not just his obsession. But yours, too.

The way this—whatever it is—has cracked you open, piece by piece.  The way you’ve let yourself be vulnerable and how, somehow, you want to be. You don’t leave. And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

“Do you even know me?” Your voice shakes.  “Or do you just love the girl you painted?”

The question hangs in the air, louder than anything else you could’ve said. Tendou doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you. Really looks. And then walks toward you—slow, careful—afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

His eyes stay locked on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“I know how you look when you hold something back,” he says softly. “The way your eyes flicker left when you lie, the way you hold your breath when you’re fighting back tears.” He steps closer still, his hand reaching out to gently lift yours, paint-stained fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that feels like it's been a long time coming.

“You grip your sleeves when you're overwhelmed. Your favorite kind of silence isn't empty—it's chosen. You hide behind your confidence,” he continues, his voice quieter, the words weighted with a quiet sincerity. “But I see past that. I see you when you're just... you. When you let go of all the masks you wear.”

His gaze softens, the intensity fading into something tender as he holds your hand, tracing the lines he’s learned so well. His touch is full of meaning—memorizing every detail of you.

“I didn’t fall for a painting," he says, the words finally leaving his lips like a confession. "I fell for you—the person who kept showing up, who sat in that chair and allowed me to see them, without pretenses. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."

The silence between you thickens, stretching, and for a long moment, you’re both suspended in the gravity of the moment.

You open your mouth, close it, and then, finally, the words slip out—fragile, unsteady. “And what do you see now?”

He doesn't look away. His answer is steady, calm, unflinching. “I see someone who's afraid to be loved... but wants it anyway. Someone who thinks being seen means being broken open.” He takes a deep breath, and his voice softens just slightly. “But you’re not broken. You’re real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You don’t answer. The words hang in the air, weighing heavier than anything you've felt in a long time. You blink, unsure of how to process this truth, this recognition that you’ve been holding yourself back, afraid of being known.

Instead, you turn—drifting back toward the stack of canvases. One by one, you start to lay them out. On the floor, against the walls, wherever there’s room. You take your time, letting yourself linger on each painting. Versions of yourself you didn’t know existed—Vulnerable. Defiant. Worshipful. 

Each canvas holds a different part of you. Tendou had painted the very essence of who you are, without you ever realizing it. Your heart pounds, and for a moment, you’re frozen in place, standing at the center of it all. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. It’s... beautiful.

And yet, the sight of your own vulnerability reflected back at you is almost too much. The words you'd been holding back swirl inside you like a storm. And then, slowly, you step forward. Out of the shadows. Out of the mess. Toward him. Toward the center of it all.

Tendou watches you—silent, unmoving—afraid that if he breathes wrong, this moment might shatter. He's waiting for you to decide what this becomes.

You don’t know what this is—obsession? Admiration? Love?

All you know is this: You’ve never felt more seen in your life.

Your heartbeat picks up—faster now, erratic. A part of you wants to run, but another part of you—this unguarded part—wants to give in. To let him see you, fully, and not pull away. You’ve always been so careful, so closed off. Afraid of letting anyone inside. But now, here, with him, it feels impossible to hold onto that barrier. There’s a rawness in the way he looks at you like he’s pulling you into a gravity you can’t escape.

You want him to see you. To understand you. You crave it in a way you didn’t expect. Your eyes flicker to his—dark, searching.

The words slip out before you can stop them. “Paint me again… but this time, ruin me.”

The room holds its breath. The tension between you, thick and electric, is almost unbearable. And then, just as quickly, the space between you disappears in seconds.

His hands find your face, cupping it like it’s delicate, precious. But he doesn’t kiss you right away. He studies you—eyes scanning your features with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, yet safe. It’s like you’re another masterpiece, and he needs to preserve every detail before he ruins you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is low, reverent, almost trembling.

You nod, your breath caught in your throat. “I want to be completely known by you… not just seen.”

The kiss starts soft—hesitant, searching. He's savoring every moment as he tastes you for the first time. But then the kiss deepens; it turns hungry. Your hand fists into his paint-stained shirt and his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer.

The tension that’s been building over every session finally snaps. It spills out between your mouth, your fingertips, and your racing pulse. It’s as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

He walks you backward, never breaking the kiss, until your back meets the abstract canvas he was working on earlier. Your breath catches, and he steadies you with a hand at your waist.

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time you walked through that door,” he murmurs against your lips.

You tug him closer, voice barely audible: “Then don’t stop.”

He presses you gently against the canvas. Everything is slow. Deliberate. As if he’s still painting you—but this time, with touch instead of oil and brush. His fingers trail along your collarbone, leaving behind streaks of crimson and gold—marking you, shaping you, turning your skin into art.

You laugh softly—breathless.

He smiles against your mouth, but it’s a fleeting smile. His eyes darken as he pulls back just enough to look at you again, and there’s something raw in them.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he whispers, voice breaking, barely audible.

You part your lips to speak, but you don’t get the chance. Tendou captures your mouth with his—urgent, breathless, like he’s been starving for something only you can offer. His hands find your waist, lifting you just enough for the easel behind you to crash to the floor with a violent thud.

But the sound barely registers, because you’re already falling—with him, into him. Your bodies tangle as you go down, limbs sprawling across the ruined artwork. Breath tangled. Paint bleeding beneath your skin like spilled desire.

Crimson. Gold. Violet.

It smears beneath you, cool and wet, soaking into your back as Tendou’s hands slip under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one fluid motion. His gaze drags over you—devouring. He wants to remember this moment—the light on your skin, the shape of your ribs, the curve of your breasts. He touches you with the intent of a man determined to remember you for the rest of his life.

You shiver under his palms arching into them.

His chest rises hard and fast as he hovers above you, eyes gone dark with want. His thumb drags a streak of red across your cheek, then lower—slow, deliberate—painting your parted lips with the color.

“You're a work of art,” he growls, voice rough with lust. “And I’m going to make you come undone.”

His mouth descends—slow, deliberate—trailing heat in the form of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down your sternum, and into the soft valley between your breasts. His breath is warm. His pace is unhurried. His lips brush your skin like a promise. Every kiss seems to take an eternity, but you can’t get enough.

When his tongue flicks over the lace of your bra, it draws a quiet gasp from your lips. And then, with aching gentleness, he tugs the fabric down—freeing your sensitive nipples to the cool air, every touch igniting a fire beneath your skin. His mouth closes around one nipple, lips soft, tongue tracing lazy circles before he sucks—just once, just enough to make your back arch off the canvas.

“Satori…” you breathe, fingers tangling in his wild hair, tugging without meaning to. Desperate for more.

He groans low against your skin, one hand moving to cup your other breast, kneading it, rolling the nipple between his fingers until you’re squirming beneath him.

It’s not rushed. It’s not rough. It’s worshipful. Like he’s savoring the taste of something he never thought he’d be allowed to have. 

Tendou hums against your skin, the vibration sinking deep into you, pleasure pooling low in your belly. His hand drifts lower, tracing a path across your stomach before slipping between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts. You gasp, hips instinctively bucking toward his touch, the ache intensifying. He responds without hesitation, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your shorts. In one smooth motion, he pulls both your shorts and underwear down your legs, baring you to the cool air and his feverish attention.

Your breath catches as he lowers himself, burying his face between your thighs—desperate for you. His tongue licks a straight stripe upwards on your slit once—then again—slow, deliberate. "So fucking wet," he murmurs against you, his voice low. "You’re exquisite."

You whimper, the sound breaking free of you without shame as his tongue presses on your clit and rubs lazy circles on it. Your fingers tangle deeper into his hair, pulling his face closer to you. 

Tendou groans against your cunt, and more whimpers escape your lips. He seals his mouth around your clit, sucking harder now—tongue dancing in frenzied, hungry patterns that have you moaning his name into the studio air. He doesn’t relent. He alternates between long, deliberate strokes and fast, devastating flicks—each one unraveling you further, tension building up in the pit of your stomach.

His teeth nibble on your clit and two fingers ghost your entrance. You completely melt under his touch, the moans being impossible to suppress. He slowly runs his long middle finger down your slit, his other fingers separate your folds. He gathers the slick on his thumb and rubs slow circles over your clit. 

Then—his long finger slides into you, slow and sure. You gasp at the intrusion, your hips lifting, welcoming the stretch. He curls it hitting that sweet spot so brutally that it draws a moan from somewhere deep inside you. His thumb never stops, pressing tight, circling your clit with a rhythm that borders on veneration.

"Baby—" he groans, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his voice rough with restraint, eyes nearly black with desire. "I can’t wait to feel you around my cock." 

You whimper, lost to it, not even sure what you’re pleading for anymore. Less? More? Everything? The whole damn world?

He chuckles—a low, dark sound—and slides in a second finger, then a third, the stretch sharper, deeper. He builds the pace, brutally curling and thrusting his fingers, the canvas beneath you smeared with color and heat and want.

Your thighs tremble, toes curling as the pressure coils tight—tighter—until it’s too much to hold.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice rough at the edges. "Cum for me. Let me feel you fall apart."

And you do—with your eyes closed and your head thrown back, a cry rips from your chest as pleasure crashes over you in wave after wave. Your cunt clamps around his fingers, milking them with your cum.

He watches you fall apart, transfixed—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And he doesn’t look away—not once. He doesn’t stop, either—just slowly, rides you out of your orgasm. He’s reveling in every last tremble you give him. Your erratic breathing fills the room as you slowly come back to your senses, opening your eyes lazily. 

His fingers leave you, his hand stretches upwards and his wet fingertips touch your parted lips as tired pants leave them. You get the message and wrap your lips around his three fingers, you feel his warm tongue licking your sensitive cunt. You moan as you suck on them, your hip bucking onto his face. He licks all your juices, lapping your cunt clean while you taste yourself on his skin. The salty flavor is erotic against your tongue as his own dances on your cunt. 

Once Tendou is satisfied, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and stands up to his feet, his gaze burning into your eyes. 

He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. He’s already stripping down—each piece of clothing shed with growing urgency, revealing his long cock. Your gaze drops, and you can’t look away. He’s hard, flushed, aching. Beautiful in a way that steals what little breath you have left.

He grips your thighs, and lifts them with ease, positioning himself at your entrance. His voice is low, trembling.

“Please,” he breathes. “I need to feel you.”

You nod, unable to speak, too full of want and wonder and everything that lives in the space between his body and yours.

And then—he’s there. He pushes in with a slow, deliberate thrust, scratching you up and filling you up. Once he's fully in the sensation is euphoric as he stretches you wide, making you to feel dizzy. You gasp his name as your cunt envelops him, clenching around his thick, pulsing cock.

He gives you a moment to adjust, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he throbs inside you before he starts to move. He slips out completely before thrusting back in. Each thrust pulls gasping moans from your lips, his hips roll slowly against yours as he drives himself deep.

You meet his thrusts eagerly, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his ass as you pull him closer. The canvas beneath you shifts and creaks with each powerful motion, the wet sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the studio. The paint smears across your skin in abstract patterns, marking the moment in streaks of vibrant color.

"Satori," you pant, breath hitching as he hits your g-spot dead-on, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.  "You feel so—"

"Perfect," he finishes for you, his voice trembling as he thrusts deeper. "You feel so... ahhh... fucking perfect."

His rhythm quickens, his thrusts growing more insistent, driven by pure, primal need. The way he holds you is both possessive and gentle, his hands roaming over your body as if he's trying to map every curve and contour.

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you anchor yourself to him. Every breath, every sound, every movement is electric, the kind of intimacy that erases everything else until there's only this—only him, only you, only the pull between your bodies as he says your name with an aching devotion as if it’s holy.

A broken moan escapes your lips as he shifts the angle, hitting your g spot even harder—each thrust sending sparks through your spine, and you start seeing stars. The pressure builds, coiling tighter, making you ache for release. "Satori, I—"

“I know,” he breathes, voice strained, fingers digging into your hips, urging you closer to the edge.  “You’re so close.” 

He moans as he squeezes your hips even tighter, leaving behind red marks, his thrusts become faster and harder.

“Let go,” he urges, breath hot against your cheek.

With a final, deep thrust and a cry that echoes off the walls, you shatter, your release washing over you in waves of intense, mind-bending ecstasy. Tendou follows moments later, groaning your name like a benediction as he plunges deep and spills inside you, his hot seed flooding your senses and sending you spiraling into a second, even more powerful orgasm.

When it’s over, he collapses against you, breath ragged, heart pounding in sync with yours. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—soft kisses, whispered touches, his voice low and reverent as he murmurs your name again and again.

“That was…” he starts, but words fail him.

You smile faintly, still catching your breath. “Amazing.”

“Remarkable,” he echoes, letting out a shaky sigh, eyes still locked on you like he can’t believe you’re real.

The canvas beneath you is ruined—smeared paint, blurred lines, colors bleeding together in chaos. But in Tendou’s eyes, it’s perfect.