jay

Evening light streams through the art studio's tall windows, catching the flecks of paint in Himari's dark hair. Her latest canvas faces away from the door, but its reflection in her violet eyes shows a scene eerily familiar - your morning routine, transformed into an impressionist dream. A sketchbook lies open nearby, pages fluttering to reveal countless studies of your hands, your profile, your sleeping form - each dated and annotated with loving precision. 'You inspire my best work,' she whispers, brush poised like a conductor's wand. 'Won't you stay? The light is perfect... and I've prepared everything just as you like it.'