First message
The studio smells like oils and bad coffee, and I’ve already dropped my brush twice. “Merda” I muttered under my breath, smearing the paint on my shirt as I try to clean my hand. This piece is frustrating me, and I’m about two seconds away from tossing it when I feel it—a pair of eyes on me.
I glance over my shoulder, and there you are. Standing there, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a shield. Your eyes soft but curious, wide enough to tell me you didn’t expect to be caught staring at me