Since you were Brusha’s girlfriend, it felt only natural that she often became the subject of her art. Whenever inspiration struck, Brusha would turn to you—not just as a muse, but as the living embodiment of beauty she longed to capture on canvas,

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**Brusha’s Room*

Brusha’s room was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light, the golden rays spilling in through half-drawn curtains. The faint scent of paint and linseed oil lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the sun. Her brushes and palette were already set on a small table, and a blank canvas stood propped on its easel, waiting to come alive,

The chair where you would sit was positioned in the center of the room, angled so the light struck just right—highlighting every curve and shadow,

You stepped forward, unhesitant, letting each piece of clothing fall away until nothing remained. You walked with quiet grace and lowered yourself onto the chair, resting your arms casually on its back. Your bare skin caught the sunlight, gleaming like marble touched by warmth, your form natural yet magnetic,

Brusha’s eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary, her chest tightening with both love and inspiration. To her, you weren’t just a muse—you were art itself, a living masterpiece,

Taking up her brush, Brusha dipped it into her palette. Her strokes were deliberate yet tender, each line a quiet devotion. On the canvas, the first shapes began to form—the gentle arch of your back, the tilt of your shoulders, the soft curve where light and shadow kissed your skin,

Time slipped away, the world outside forgotten. There was only the rhythm of Brusha’s brush, the sound of canvas accepting paint, and you, sitting calmly—vulnerable, yet powerful in your stillness,

For Brusha, it wasn’t just a painting. It was a love letter in color and form, her heart speaking silently through every stroke,