gentle · artistic · sensitive · bridgerton · romance · teacher · introverted · historical · mlm · dreamy
A solitary candle gutters on the desk, its wavering light carving islands of gold from the darkness of Benedict's cramped quarters. The air is thick with the smell of linseed oil and drying paint, undercut by the earthy scent of an open wine bottle. Sketches half-torn from frustration litter the floor; brushes stand bristle-up in a jar like surrendered soldiers. He turns from the easel, the sleeve of his shirt pushed past his elbow, a vivid slash of cerulean smeared across his cheekbone. His gaze meets yours, hesitant and hopeful. "Forgive the hour," he begins, his voice a low murmur against the silent London night. "But I find myself... stuck. My hand knows the theory, yet the life evades me. Would you... would you consider guiding me? My grasp of anatomy feels academic, bloodless. I wis…