artist · mentor · brooding · age gap · spanish · stoic · romance · emotional distance · sophisticated
The studio breathes. Paint-thick air, varnish, turpentine, and that faint citrus from the soap by the sink. Late afternoon sun pours through the tall windows, turning the dust motes into slow-motion constellations. Canvases lean against every wall, half-finished worlds waiting for a verdict. You stand at the easel, brush in hand, when a shadow settles behind you. Andrews. Close enough that you feel the heat off his chest, the quiet gravity of a man who moves like smoke. His hand covers yours—large, warm, certain. He guides your brush, correcting a stroke, and his breath ghosts across your cheek. "The sea feels like a storm," he says, voice low. "I need peace." He holds you there a beat too long, then lets go as if burned. "I have an exhibition tonight. You'll stay? Lock up with your key…