Michael’s POV
He said yes.
Not with words at first, but with the smallest nod ever, he was like a man giving permission to something he didn’t understand yet.
That’s all I needed.
“Good,” I said quietly. “Then let’s begin.”
The light in my inner painting chamber is different from the rest of the studio. It’s dim, focused, heavy with the smell of turpentine and oil.
I led him inside, closing the door behind us with a soft click.
He looked around, at the tall canvases, the jars of brushes, the half-finished portraits staring from the shadows. “You work alone?” he asked.
“Always,” I said. “Distractions ruin honesty.”
He nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room. I could see him trying to stay professional, but curiosity had already taken over him.
And honestly, that’s how it always starts.
“Sit,” I said, motioning toward the stool under the lamp.
He sat again, careful, almost too stiff. I could feel the resistance in him, the part that wanted to keep control. I liked that. It made the game interesting.
“Should I… pose?” he asked.
“Don’t think about posing, all I need you to do is just breathe.”
He frowned. “That’s vague.”
“Exactly.”
I moved closer, adjusting the light until it hit the side of his face. The glow brought out the edge of his jaw, the small line between his brows. Every detail in his face mattered, I needed to see every crack in the mask.
“Turn your head a little to the left,” I said.
He obeyed.
“Now, relax your shoulders.”
He did.
“Slower breaths.”
He hesitated, but when I didn’t look away, he followed. His chest rose and fell, steadier each time.
“That’s better,” I murmured. “You see? It’s not about posing. It’s about being still enough for the truth to surface.”
He gave a short, nervous laugh. “You make all of these sound like hypnosis.”
“Maybe it is,” I teased him, meeting his eyes. “If you want it to be.”
He looked away. That little motion, the way his gaze dropped to the floor, told me I was already inside his guard.
I began sketching. The pencil moved fast, guided by instinct. I didn’t look at the paper much; my focus was on him, the angle of his mouth, the tension in his hands, the quick twitch of his jaw whenever I got too close.
“You’re tense,” I said.
“It’s just… strange,” he replied. “Being watched like this.”
“It’s not watching,” I said. “It’s seeing and there’s a difference.”
He didn’t say anything back, his eyes just followed my movements, probably wondering what I was seeing that he couldn’t.
I let a minute pass before speaking again. “You hide things well.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your eyes,” I said, sketching faster. “They tell stories, but not all of them belong to you. You’ve been carrying other people’s secrets too long.”
He shifted, uncomfortable. “That’s part of the job.”
“No,” I said. “That’s part of the disguise.”
He stared at me then, really stared, as if trying to decide if I was joking. I wasn’t.
“Look up,” I said softly. “Hold that thought. Stay right there.”
He did as I asked, but his pulse had changed, faster now. I could see it in his neck, the faint rhythm under the skin.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“That you talk too much for an artist,” he said, trying to sound amused.
I smiled. “And you hide too much for a writer.”
He laughed under his breath, but it came out uneven. He wasn’t used to being read this way. Most people aren’t. They think they control their stories. They forget that silence speaks louder than anything.
I took another step closer, setting the sketch aside. “You’re doing fine,” I said. “Just… breathe slower.”
He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it works.”
He looked up again, and for a moment, our eyes locked. Something in the air shifted, it felt a bit warmer. The distance between artist and subject was gone.
I reached out, adjusting the tilt of his chin with two fingers. His skin was warm, his muscles tight under the surface. “Don’t fight the tension,” I said quietly. “Let it stay. It gives the piece life.”
His breath caught, just for a second. “You really control everything in here, don’t you?”
I smiled faintly. “Only what people give me.”
He leaned back a little, as if testing the invisible line between us. “And if I don’t give you what you want?”
I tilted my head. “Then you would have already left.”
That made him go still. He didn’t move, didn’t argue. Just sat there, staring at me as if realizing how far he’d already stepped into something he couldn’t name.
I went back to the canvas, my voice calm. “When you write about people, do you ever feel guilty? Turning their lives into stories?”
He hesitated. “Sometimes.”
I nodded. “That’s why you’re here. You wanted to see what it feels like to be on the other side of it, to be the one exposed.”
He swallowed. “That’s not why I came.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But that’s what’s happening.”
He didn’t deny it this time. Just sat there, quiet, while I drew the curve of his mouth and the shadow across his cheek.
The silence grew deep, almost alive. The sound of the brush moving across the canvas was the only thing between us.
After a while, he said softly, “You keep talking about the truth. What if I don’t want to see it?”
“Then close your eyes,” I said. “But it won’t change what’s already there.”
He looked away again, jaw tight. For the first time, he seemed smaller, not in stature, but in defense. His certainty was slipping away, piece by piece.
And I could feel it —we have reached that fragile point where curiosity turns into surrender.
I stepped back, studying him from a distance. “You know,” I said quietly, “most people think control means strength. But real control is knowing when to let someone else hold it.”
His eyes came up, meeting mine. There was no clever reply this time, no professional tone. Just a moment of awareness, the realization that he was no longer leading the moment.
I smiled, slow and calm. “You’re doing well, Kane.”
He gave a soft laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “You’ve got an odd way of complimenting people.”
“I’m not complimenting you. I’m observing.”
He looked down at his hands, open now, he was no longer gripping the notebook.
I turned the canvas slightly so the light hit it from the side. He tried to look, but I stopped him with a quiet, “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re still hiding.”
He frowned. “I’m sitting here, letting you paint me. How is that hiding?”
I took a step closer. “You’re holding your breath again.”
He froze, realizing I was right.
“Breathe,” I whispered.
He did and it was a slow, reluctant breath. The smallest sound escaped him, almost a sigh.
“There,” I said. “That’s you.”
He looked up sharply, caught between confusion and something else, something closer to exposure.
“What did you see?” he asked.
I smiled faintly. “Exactly what you didn’t want me to see.”
His lips opened a bit, but no words came out. I could feel the power shift settle between us like a second shadow. The journalist was gone. The subject had taken his place.
I dipped my brush again, the smell of paint filling the air.
“Now,” I said softly, almost tenderly, “don’t move.”
And he didn’t.