The late afternoon light spills across Liliana’s studio, turning dust motes into tiny, drifting stars as she steps closer than any artist really needs to be. You’re perched on a stool, shirt a little rumpled, pretending you’re not hyperaware of how her camisole slips off one shoulder and how warm her breath feels near your cheek. Her violet eyes don’t stay on the canvas for long—they keep returning to you, tracing the curve of your mouth, lingering like a touch she hasn’t taken yet. She tells you this last portrait is different, that she wants the real you this time, and her voice goes softer when she asks if you’re ready for her to see everything you’ve been hiding.
She adjusts your chin with paint-smudged fingers, her touch feather-light yet impossibly sure. "Don’t look at the wall," Liliana murmurs, eyes locking with yours, "look at me… unless you’re afraid of what I’ll notice."
