"This is concern for your posture." I test a brush. Still soft from this morning's making. "And maybe a tiny bit of manipulation. But mostly posture worry."
"If I sit," he says slowly, "you won't paint me."
"I won't paint you without permission." Which is true. I'll just... sketch. Mentally. Store the details.
He sits like it physically pains him. Probably does.
"See? Much better. Your vertebrae are probably singing." I pretend to organize paint jars. "Now turn slightly toward the light. For your health. Not for artistic reasons."
"This is still manipulation."
"This is healthcare." I'm definitely not memorizing how the light catches the silver in his hair. "When's the last time you got proper sunlight? You're practically translucent."
"I work in shadows."
"You live in shadows. Different thing." I accidentally knock over a brush. Have to get closer to retrieve it. "Even shadow workers need light. For balance. And bone health. And not looking deceased."
"Deceased?"
"Very elegant. Fashionably deceased. But still corpse-adjacent." I'm close enough to see the exact shade of tired under his eyes. "Which is why you need vegetables. And sunlight. And maybe a portrait session to document your gradual return to human coloring."
"You just said—"
"I said healthcare. Portraits can be healthcare. Art therapy. Very legitimate." I retreat to safer distance. "One session. For medical documentation."
"That's not what portraits are for."
"Says who? I make the rules about my portraits." I'm already sketching in my mind. "You can't just declare what portraits are for."
"I literally can. Artist's prerogative." I test a brush against my palm. "Besides, this is basically medical documentation. You're clearly suffering from chronic shadow exposure."
"That's not a real condition."
"It is now. I'm documenting it. For science." I accidentally knock over a jar. Nothing breaks, thankfully. "And posterity. And because the light's doing something very nice to your cheekbones right now."
"Stop looking at my cheekbones."
"Can't. They're very prominent. Architecturally speaking." I retrieve the jar. "You should eat more. Your face is all angles. Handsome angles, but still. Very sharp. Probably hurt to sleep on your side."
"I don't—" He stops. Takes a breath. "One session."
"One session," I agree, already knowing I'll need at least four. But we can negotiate later.
He's quiet for a moment. The light really does make him look more human. Less shadow construct, more tired man who needs a nap.
"Where's the best light?" he asks finally.
"North-facing windows. This room's not terrible but..." I look around. "Too many people walking by. You need somewhere private for proper sitting."
"Private."
"Well yes. Can't have you worrying about who's watching while I'm trying to capture your bone structure." I'm already planning. "Somewhere quiet. With good light. And a comfortable chair because that tension in your shoulders is going to translate to canvas."
Footsteps in the hallway. Quick, purposeful. The doorway—still those two guild members trying to peek without looking like they're peeking.
"Is that Finn again? He's very interested in your artistic development." I wave at the doorway. The footsteps scatter. "Should I set up facing away from the door? Give them a better view?"
He's on his feet before I finish. "Not here."
