After the first sketch, the studio felt different. Smaller. Warmer. It was as though the walls themselves had leaned closer to witness what had just passed between us. The smell of turpentine lingered with a strange intimacy, the faint hum of the city outside nothing more than a distant memory.
Adrian did not speak immediately. He set down his brush and studied the sketch for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly. I watched him, fascinated and unnerved, because even in silence he dominated the room. The faint line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders under the dim lamplight, the way he seemed entirely untouchable yet magnetic—it was impossible to look away.
Finally, he turned to me.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, and the question landed in the air between us like a weight I could not move.
I hesitated. "I should not," I admitted.
"No," he said, voice soft but commanding. "You should not. And yet you are here. That counts for something, does it not?"
I swallowed hard. I wanted to answer, but the words lodged in my throat. There was a gravity to him that made speaking feel frivolous. He noticed my hesitation and smiled faintly. "Good," he said. "We will begin there."
I did not know what he meant. Not yet.
He stepped closer, circling me slowly, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze even when he was not looking directly at me. It was not a look that could be broken. Not by clever words, not by averted eyes, not by shame. It was the kind of observation that burrows into the skin and settles into the soul.
"I want to ask you questions," he said finally. "Questions no one else has asked. You may answer. Or not. But I want to know what I cannot see on the surface."
I felt my pulse spike. There was danger in that statement, a thrill in its honesty. I nodded slowly.
"Do you know the first time someone broke your trust?" he asked, voice low, careful.
The question made my stomach twist. I had asked myself that many times, in private, replaying the memory like a wound that refused to close. I looked at him, searching for judgment, but found only focus, patience, curiosity. "Yes," I said quietly. "I was twelve. A friend of my mother's promised me a gift. Something I wanted desperately. I waited. And it never came. She never apologized. I learned then that some promises are meaningless."
He nodded slowly, as though absorbing each word into himself. "And the memory still lingers."
"It does."
He stepped closer, just enough that I could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. "Good. That is what I wanted to hear. It tells me more about you than any pose, any sketch, any canvas ever could."
A shiver passed through me. His words carried a gravity that was impossible to ignore. Every brushstroke he had made in the sketch was deliberate, yes, but these questions—their intimacy, their precision—were more invasive, more magnetic than paint could ever be.
"What about the first time you learned to be afraid of someone you loved?" he asked next. His tone was careful, almost gentle, but I knew it would probe deeper than I expected.
I hesitated. It was a question no one had ever asked me aloud, and I had never spoken it in full. My hands twitched on my lap, and I swallowed hard. "I was fifteen. Someone I loved… someone I trusted completely… showed me that the people you let in can also hurt you most. I learned that night that love can be a weapon."
He nodded, absorbing the words with a stillness that made the room feel both smaller and infinite. "And did it destroy you?"
"No," I admitted, voice low. "It changed me. Made me cautious. Made me… aware."
He circled me slowly, finally stopping behind me. "Awareness is a tool. A strength. You are not fragile, even when you feel broken."
The brush he held hovered in the air. I realized then that it was no longer about creating an image of me. It was about understanding me. Every angle, every shadow, every hesitation in my body, he recorded with his eyes, his mind, his hands. I was raw, exposed, and entirely under his gaze, and yet I did not want to move. I did not want to look away.
"Do you pretend to be someone else when you are alone?" he asked. His voice was a whisper now, so close it brushed my ear.
I froze. That question made my pulse stutter. It was true. I had masks I wore everywhere, layers I built to protect myself. And here was a man, a stranger in the most ordinary sense, seeing straight through them. "Yes," I admitted softly.
He lowered his gaze to the sketchpad, then back to me. "I thought so," he murmured. "You are more complex than you allow. I want to capture that complexity. Not just the surface, not just the lines of your face or the curve of your shoulders. The truth. Everything you hide. That is what fascinates me."
I shivered at the word fascinated. It was precise. Obsessed without need for explanation. Dark and yet intoxicating.
"You do not have to answer everything," he said after a pause. "But every answer you give helps me see you more clearly. Helps me understand the story behind the pose, behind the face, behind the hands that you think are hidden."
I realized then that the studio had become a different kind of space. Not just walls and paint and canvas. A space of exposure, of revelation, of trust that I had never known. And I wanted to remain there. Not because I was compelled, though I was. Not because I was afraid, though I was. But because there was a pull to him, to the way he saw me, to the way he made me feel alive in my own skin in ways no one else ever had.
He stepped closer again, and I could feel the warmth of his presence enveloping me. "Do you know," he said softly, "that when you answer me honestly, it is more intoxicating than any pose, any color, any brushstroke could ever be?"
I swallowed, my pulse raging. "I… I think I understand," I said.
"Good," he whispered. "Because this is only the beginning. The questions. The sketches. The paintings. Each will take more of you than the last. And yet you will keep giving it, because the truth… the truth is addictive."
I shivered, though not from cold. The studio had shrunk around us. The walls seemed to hum. The faint smell of paint had become part of him, part of me. And I understood then the gravity of the pull. The obsession had begun. Not from touch, not from words, but from being truly seen.
And I wanted it.
I wanted to give it all.
Because in the way he looked at me, I had already begun to belong.