"I never mean to." The honesty tastes bitter. "It just happens. My magic doesn't understand boundaries. Or privacy. Or appropriate timing. I'm sorry."
He moves closer to the painting. Up close, I can see what my magic caught—the exhaustion in his shoulders, the careful control that costs him everything. He stands like someone who's forgotten how to rest.
"You see too much." He's not looking at me. Can't stop looking at himself, painted true. "This is why you have to die."
"That seems like an overreaction." I should be terrified. Should be begging. Instead I'm noticing he's not wearing gloves and his hands have those little scars from shadow magic. Like paper cuts but deeper. "Are you alright?"
He turns. Slowly.
"Am I alright?" Each word precise. "You painted my face. My actual face. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Made you look very attractive yet approachable?"
His eye twitches. "I've killed people for less than this."
"Yes, that's rather evident." I fidget with my brush. The bristles are getting stiff. Should have cleaned it hours ago. "Butyou seem upset about more than just the painting. When's the last time you ate actual food? Not coffee. Food with vegetables. Cooked vegetables. Carrots maybe. Everyone likes carrots."
"Are you seriously asking about my dietary habits while I decide how to kill you?"
"Well, someone should." The words tumble out. "You look underfed. That can't be good for you."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if laughs could be strangled. The shadows pull tighter around him.
"This is not how this conversation goes." He's gripping my painting's frame. "You're supposed to beg. Or run. Or at least have the decency to be properly terrified."
"Oh, I am terrified." I am. My hands won't stop shaking. The brush rattles against my palette. "But being scared doesn't mean I can't worry about your health. Those aren't mutually exclusive. Have you considered supplements? They make gummy ones now. Shaped like bears."
"Supplements." His voice has gone flat. Dangerously flat.
"Or soup? Soup is good. Very nutritious." Words tumbling faster now. "I make excellent soup. Well, adequate soup. Edible soup. The vegetables are usually cooked all the way through. Sometimes I add barley. Do you like barley? It's very filling."
He's staring at me like I'm a broken clock somehow telling the right time.
"Are you going to kill me or are you going to keep having an existential crisis in my doorway?" I gesture vaguely. "Because if it's the second thing, you should probably sit down. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I don't sleep." The admission sounds involuntary.
"That explains so much." I move toward my chair, keeping my movements slow. Like approaching a feral cat. "Sleep deprivation affects decision-making. You need at least sixhours. Eight is better. Have you tried chamomile tea? Or warm milk? My mother used to add honey to warm milk. Said it fixed everything."
He makes that strangled-laugh sound again. "You're insane."
"Probably." I sit, because standing while he looms is making my neck hurt. "But I'm also right. When's the last time someone asked if you were okay?"
The question hits something. His shadows pull tighter. For a second, his face does something almost human before the mask slams back.
"Never." Raw. Then harder: "It doesn't matter."
"It always matters." My magic stirs, wanting to paint this moment. The way his control cracks just enough to show the person underneath. "You matter."
He laughs. A real one this time, though it sounds like it hurts. "You have no idea who I am."
"You're someone who stands in moonlight looking lost." I fidget with a paint-stained rag. Used to be a dish towel. Now it's mostly cerulean. "You're someone who carries everyone else's safety and forgets to eat lunch. You're someone who probably has a favorite mug but won't admit it because that's too normal."
He goes completely still. The shadows sharpen.
"You paint one picture and think you understand me?"
"No." I meet his eyes, even though it makes my head hurt a little. "But I'd like to."
