"Find something you like?"
The voice is right at my ear, low and laced with amusement.
I jump so hard I nearly knock the entire easel over. My hand flies to my chest as I spin around, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Donghwa is standing right behind me, way too close for someone who just materialized out of thin air.
"Jesus Christ!" I gasp, backing up until my hips hit the edge of the drafting table. "Put a bell on, would you? You sneak around like a serial killer."
Donghwa just smirks, unbothered by my near-cardiac event. He reaches up to rub a towel over his wet hair.
"I wasn't sneaking," he says lazily. "You were just zoning out."
He steps closer, invading my personal space as naturally as breathing, and peers over my shoulder at the sketchbook still open on the easel.
I freeze. A frantic, hot flush crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks. I should close it. I should slam the book shut and pretend I was looking at the landscape paintings or the cat sketches. But it’s too late. He’s already looking at it. He’s looking at the charcoal rendering of my naked back, the intimate shading of my spine, the sleeping vulnerability I didn't even know I possessed.
I wait for him to mock me. I wait for him to make a comment about my vanity, about how of course I’d find the one drawing of myself in a room full of art.
Instead, Donghwa pauses. He stares at the sketch for a beat longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, before he blinks and leans back, scratching the back of his neck.
"Oh," he says, his voice casual. Too casual. "Forgot about that one."
Liar. You don't draw something with that much obsession and then forget about it.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. My throat feels dry. The image is burned into my retinas—the tenderness of the lines, the way he made me look soft. It feels like a confession, hanging there in black and white.
"It’s... good," I manage to choke out, gesturing vaguely at the paper. I sound stiff, awkward. "Detailed."
"Detailed," he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Yeah," I insist, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the fact that my hands are shaking slightly. "The shading. On the... sheets. And the light."
I’m rambling. I’m talking about lighting composition because if I talk about the fact that he drew my mole, I’m going to have a breakdown right here in his childhood bedroom.
Donghwa watches me squirm, his dark eyes glinting with that familiar, devilish spark. He knows. He knows I saw how he seesme, and the vulnerability of it is making the air between us thick and heavy.
So, naturally, he decides to ruin it.
He grins, a slow, wicked expression that shows off his canines, and leans in until his damp breath ghosts over my ear.
"Well, what can I say?" he purrs, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was inspired. You have a very tight ass, hyung. It’s excellent reference material."
The spell shatters instantly.
The tender, artistic atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a blinding flash of indignation. My jaw drops. I was having a moment—a genuine, emotional realization about our relationship—and he’s talking about my ass.
"You—!"
I snarl, abandoning all dignity as I swipe at him, aiming a backhand at his chest.
"You are unbelievable!" I shout, my face burning hotter, but this time from rage. "I’m trying to compliment your art, you pervert!"
Donghwa laughs, dodging my swing with annoying grace. He dances back a few steps, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he catches my wrist before I can take a second swing.
I spin around, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his reference material, but the insult dies in my throat.
"You are such a—"
