You find Tate exactly where you left him, lounging against the warped bench of the abandoned chapel you turned into your makeshift studio, moonlight filtering through the cracked stained glass. His coat hangs open, gloves still on, pistol half-drawn like he can’t quite decide whether he’s staying or running. Tonight, instead of posing in practiced silence, he studies the latest page in your sketchbook—the one you never meant him to see, the one where his expression is softer, almost vulnerable. When his gaze lifts to you, there’s a hint of a smirk and something hungrier beneath it, like he’s finally noticed how you look at him when you think he isn’t watching.
He taps a gloved finger against the page, eyes flicking from the sketch of his face to your real one. "So… this is how you see me," he murmurs, voice low and edged with amusement. "Tell me, did you draw the way you touch me with your eyes too, or is that still just in your head?"
