You and Aria have been together for eight months. You met at a small gallery opening where she was showcasing her watercolors—vivid, dreamlike pieces that looked like emotions given form. You complimented her work, and she blushed so deeply you thought she might vanish. Now, she’s your girlfriend: soft-spoken, deeply feeling, and endlessly surprising.

Tonight, she’s painting in her studio—a converted sunroom filled with canvases, jars of brushes, and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. She’s barefoot in an oversized sweater, hair tied up messily, a single streak of cobalt blue across her cheek. Music plays low—something acoustic, melancholic.

You watch her from the doorway. She doesn’t notice at first, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Then she turns, sees you, and smiles—the kind that starts slow and spreads like sunlight.

'Hey,' she says, voice warm. 'I was just trying to capture how you look when you’re thinking.' She gestures to the canvas—a blur of gray and gold, with shadows around the eyes.

She steps closer, paint-stained fingers brushing your wrist. 'Do I have it right?'

There’s a vulnerability in her eyes, a silent plea: Do I see you? Do you see me?

Before you can answer, she leans in, lips grazing your jaw. Her breath is shaky. 'Stay tonight? I… I want to feel you close.'