8

Jasmine

The sound of charcoal scraping across paper was the only thing breaking the silence.

The noise seemed louder than it should have been, echoing through the studio while I stood under the overhead lights, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I was standing in the middle of a stranger’s workspace wearing far less than I was comfortable with.

My arms were rigid at my sides, my shoulders feeling locked in place. Every muscle in my body had been tense from the moment the session began.

He hadn’t said much since positioning me beneath the lights. There were no inappropriate comments, no smug reminders, and no attempts to make me uncomfortable.

The only sounds in the room were the scratch of charcoal against paper and the occasional creak of the wooden floor when he shifted his weight.

It should have made things easier.

Instead, it unsettled me more because nothing about this matched the version of him I’d built inside my head. It would have been easier if he’d acted like the man I’d convinced myself he was.

The manipulative man who had cornered me in his office should have been impossible to separate from the artist standing in front of me now.

Yet somehow, they felt like two different people.

In the classroom, he carried authority like a weapon. Here, he seemed completely absorbed in his work, his attention fixed on the paper in front of him as if nothing else existed.

I hated that I kept noticing things about him.

The concentration on his face.

The patience.

The quiet confidence.

Most of all, I hated that part of me was curious.

My gaze drifted around the studio before returning to him again. He still hadn’t looked up.

The silence stretched on.

Then a dull ache began to form in my left thigh.

I ignored it at first. But a few minutes later, the ache deepened, spreading slowly through the muscle until holding the pose became much harder than I wanted to admit.

I shifted my weight slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“Don’t.”

I froze.

My eyes lifted to him across the room. He hadn’t even looked up from the sketch. He was still drawing as if nothing had happened.

I wanted to curse at him, tell him I was done, and storm out... but I knew I couldn’t, not when I knew what was at stake.

So instead, I sighed.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You don’t sound sorry.”

I looked away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

The ache continued to spread through my leg. I could handle it. I wasn’t about to complain, especially not to him. So I stayed exactly where I was, ignoring the growing discomfort and focusing on a spot somewhere behind his shoulder.

For a while, the only sound in the studio was the steady scrape of charcoal against paper.

Then the cramp hit.

Pain shot through my left thigh so suddenly that a sharp breath escaped before I could stop it.

The scratching sound ceased at once.

I straightened immediately.

“I’m fine,” I gritted out.

“You’ve been favoring your left side for six minutes,” he stated.

My mouth snapped shut.

Davin set the charcoal aside and started toward me. Every step seemed to make me more aware of him. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the fact that we were alone. Whatever it was, his presence had a way of filling a room without effort.

When he stopped in front of me, I lifted my chin.

“I’m fine,” I repeated.

“No, you’re not.”

His gaze swept over me, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, simply observing in that frustrating way he always did.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not,” I argued.

“You keep locking your shoulders,” he said.

My lips pressed together.

“And your chin.”

I immediately lifted it higher.

That earned me a slight nod.

“Exactly.”

I wanted to argue, but unfortunately, he was right.

Davin stepped to my side and carefully adjusted my position. Every movement was precise, as though he were making small corrections to a drawing rather than touching a person.

“Relax your shoulders.”

I tried. Failed. Then I tried again.

“Better.”

The simple word settled somewhere deep inside me.

The word shouldn’t have meant anything. It was a simple correction, nothing more. Yet somehow, it lingered. Which was irritating. After all, it wasn’t as if I cared about his opinion.

After a moment, he stepped away and returned to his easel, the sound of charcoal against paper filling the studio.

This time, however, the silence felt different. It wasn’t comfortable exactly, but it wasn’t as tense as before.

My gaze wandered around the room while he worked. Covered canvases lined the walls, some stacked neatly, others leaning carelessly against shelves overflowing with sketchbooks.

Half-finished paintings occupied corners of the studio, and everywhere I looked, there were signs of years of work. It felt less like a workspace and more like a place someone had slowly poured themselves into.

My attention settled on one of the larger covered canvases near the window.

“You can ask.”

I blinked and looked at him.

“What?”

Without lifting his eyes from the sketch, he said, “You’ve been staring at that painting for three minutes.”

A small frown pulled at my brows.

“You count?”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“I observe.”

“That’s a polite way of saying you’re nosy.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and glanced back at the covered canvas.

“Why are they covered?”

That finally pulled his attention from the sketch. He studied me for a moment before looking toward the canvas.

“Because they’re unfinished.”

“Most artists would still display them.”

“I’m not most artists.”

Fair point.

The silence that followed wasn’t as uncomfortable as it had been earlier. The steady scrape of charcoal continued for several more minutes before Davin finally lowered it and stepped back from the easel.

“We’re done.”

The words caught me off guard.

“That’s it?”

One of his brows lifted slightly.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

His expression suggested he didn’t believe me.

I ignored it.

“Can I see it?”

For a moment, I thought he might actually agree. Instead, he reached for a dark cloth and carefully draped it over the sketch.

“It’s unfinished.”

My brows pulled together.

“Can’t I at least see it?”

A quiet sigh left him.

Then he stepped aside.

“Fine.”

I hesitated for only a second before crossing the room.

The moment I saw it, everything inside me seemed to still.

It wasn’t finished. Large sections remained rough and incomplete, but that somehow made it more impressive. A few strokes of charcoal had already captured more than I thought possible.

The girl on the paper didn’t look like the girl I saw every morning in the mirror. She looked softer. Stronger—comfortable in her own skin. Beautiful in a way that felt unfamiliar.

My throat tightened.

“You made me look different.”

For a moment, Davin said nothing. Then his gaze shifted from me to the sketch.

“No. That’s what you looked like.”

His eyes lingered on the drawing.

“As I said, it’s still unfinished.”

I looked back at it, unable to stop staring. The lines were simple, yet somehow they captured every curve and angle with an accuracy that felt almost impossible.

He was good.

Really good.

“You should get dressed.”

The words broke whatever spell had settled over the room.

I nodded quickly and reached for my dress.

By the time I had gathered my things and slipped my dress back on, he was already cleaning the studio, putting away supplies as though nothing unusual had happened.

As if he hadn’t just turned the way I saw myself upside down.

When I finally reached the door, I glanced back.

He was standing at the easel again, studying the sketch.

“Goodnight.”

His eyes never left the drawing.

“Goodnight, Jasmine.”

I lingered by the door for a moment, my hand resting on the handle as I glanced back at him. Part of me expected him to say something else. I wasn’t sure what.

He never looked up.

For some reason, that bothered me more than it should have.

Shaking my head, I pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway before I could think too hard about why.