Heian hadn't painted in three days.
Not because he lacked inspiration—Liora haunted every inch of the studio like a fever dream—but because every time he picked up the brush, he saw her not as a figure to be captured… but as a woman to be kept.
That terrified him.
Love was never part of the ritual. Lust, yes. Obsession, always. But love?
Love made men stupid.
He stood by the open window, cigarette in hand, watching her sleep. Her naked body tangled in sheets, one leg exposed, lips parted in that careless way only the broken can manage. She looked ruined.
She looked his.
"You'll destroy me," he murmured aloud.
Not to her. To himself.
He thought of his past muses. Faces half-forgotten, screams painted into oil, trembling bodies archived in canvas. He had loved none of them. That was the rule.
Love tainted the art.
Love created mercy.
But with Liora…
He had paused the knife once.
He had held her too long after.
He had whispered her name like it meant something.
He didn't just want to paint her.
He wanted to own her sadness.
To sip it like wine.
To kiss her tears and rename them after constellations.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Because when an artist falls in love with the canvas—
he forgets where to draw the line between creation…
…and destruction.
He crushed the cigarette under his heel.
Walked to the easel. Picked up the brush.
He would paint again.
But this time—
He wouldn't stop where the skin ends.