He finally set the brush down on the wooden table, the faint clink louder than any sound in the room. My pulse slammed against my ribs, echoing in rhythm with the drops of rain tapping against the window.
"You will come," he said, not a demand, but a certainty that left no room for refusal.
"I… I don't even know you," I whispered, though the words felt hollow.
"Yet I know you," he replied, each syllable deliberate. "I know what you hide from the world. I know the curve of your thoughts, the rhythm of your hesitation. I know what keeps your nights awake."
The way he said it, it wasn't arrogance. It was truth. Every word scraped against my defenses. My knees felt weak. My chest, tight. And still, I could not look away.
"I am not" I started.
"Not what?" His dark eyes caught mine, unwavering. "Afraid to reveal yourself? Afraid to be desired? Afraid to be seen?"
I swallowed. "All of the above," I admitted.
He smiled then, slowly, and it was almost cruel in its perfection. The kind of smile that promises something dangerous and irresistible.
"Good," he said softly. "That is exactly what I need."
He walked closer, the lamplight tracing shadows across his face, painting him more than the canvas ever could. The air grew warmer, the room smaller. I could smell him now—cedarwood, paint, the faint trace of something uniquely him that made my stomach twist.
"I want you to come to my studio tomorrow night," he said. "Not to be painted as you imagine, but as you truly are. I want to capture the parts you hide, the expressions you never show. I want to see you completely."
I laughed nervously, though the sound trembled. "That's… that's impossible."
"Only if you think it is," he said. His hand hovered near mine for the briefest second, a spark that left my skin buzzing. "Come. Or don't. But know this—if you do not, I will wait."
The word wait was heavy. Not patience. Not politeness. But a weight that implied obsession, inevitability, and desire all at once.
I opened my mouth to reply, but he simply tilted his head, that same patient, consuming gaze, and the words lodged in my throat. I felt myself nod before I could think. My fingers clutched the edge of my chair as the storm outside raged, and my own storm began inside me.
He stepped back, letting the moment breathe. "Tomorrow night. Be ready."
And just like that, he left me alone with the quiet hum of the studio, the smell of turpentine and wet rain, and the knowledge that my life had already begun to bend toward him.
I wanted to run. I should have run. But I knew, even as I left the gallery that night, drenched in rain and anticipation, that I would come. That I would let him see me. All of me.
Because something in the way he looked at me had already claimed me.