Later, the bed beca my studio. Adrien lay on his stomach, his height stretching nearly the length of the mattress, the muscles in his back shifting with every breath. The lamplight turned his skin into warm bronze, a surface so flawless I almost felt guilty for touching it with paint.
Almost.
I straddled his hips, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. The paper bag sat open at my right side, brushes and little jars of paint spread out like treasures, including a bowl of water and a cloth to wipe the brush on. A tray of cut fruits was placed on my left.
I dipped my brush into green on the white palette in my hands that already carried other colors. The sharp scent of paint stung faintly in the air, mixing with the soft sweetness of the fruit. The bristles trembled in my hand with the sa excitent humming through as I looked at the reference on my phone.
"You’re unusually quiet," I teased, setting the first stroke down the slope of his shoulder blade. The bristles dragged over warm skin, catching faintly on muscle before gliding smooth, leaving a streak of green in their wake.
Adrien’s voice was low, muffled by the pillow under his cheek. "I’m lying here, letting you use as a canvas. What exactly should I say?"
"’Thank you, princess,’ would be a start."
His chuckle rumbled through his back, vibrating beneath my palm as I steadied him. "Don’t push your luck."
I smiled to myself, brushing out the shape of a tree, leaves spilling into existence where there had only been skin. Every stroke was an act of reverence, watching sothing alive bloom across the hard planes of him. The lamplight caught the paint as it spread, making it glow faintly, as if the colors were lit from within.
"Don’t move," I whispered when his muscles tensed under .
"You’re painting on my spine," he muttered, though he stayed still, his voice softened by sothing like wonder. "You do realize, if this wasn’t you, I’d have thrown them out by now?"
The corner of my lips tugged upward. "That’s because no one else gets to touch you."
Silence fell after that, except for the soft drag of bristles and the occasional dip into the palette. With each stroke, the image ca alive: a river bending, trees rising, sky stretching. A landscape on his body.
And through it all, Adrien stayed beneath —still, patient, allowing to cover him in color, as if he belonged entirely to .
"Okay, I am done. And the paint dries surprisingly fast." I said as I took a picture with my phone. "What do you think?" I asked as I showed it to him through my device.
He twisted his head, his eyes locking onto the screen. A slow exhale escaped him, soft and reverent. "Hmm," he breathed, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite na. "It’s... it’s breathtaking."
"Liar. I know it’s not perfect... I am not an artist. It is evident it isn’t what you expected. It’s ugly" I huffed already getting off his back. But he turned imdiately and held my waist, pulling back and onto his hips.
"You’re being ridiculous," Adrien said, his voice firm but gentle as he pinned with his gaze. His hands, strong and warm, gripped my hips, holding in place despite my half-hearted attempts to escape. "It’s beautiful, Isabella. It’s you, and it’s raw, and it’s perfect in its imperfection."
I frowned, my chest tightening at his words. A lump rose in my throat. I tried to swallow it down, tried to breathe through the sudden ache, but it only swelled until the first hot tear slipped free. "You’re just saying that because you’re the subject," I protested, my voice breaking. Why am I overreacting? Calm down Isabella, you would make him suspect with the way you are acting. Ugh this is embarrassing.
He seed to sense the shift in my mood, his thumb stroking the curve of my hip in a soothing rhythm. His gaze softened, the amber depths searching mine. "Princess," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent shivers down my spine. "Look at ."
I forced myself to et his eyes, my own brimming with unshed tears. "It’s just... it’s not what I envisioned. I wanted it to be more, to be perfect for you."
Adrien let out another breath, this one full of exasperation and sothing akin to tenderness. "Perfection is overrated. This is raw. This is you. And you are anything but ugly, Isabella." He reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing against my cheek. "
"You think I expected you to paint so sterile, flawless image on ? No. I wanted you to paint you. And you did. You painted your wonder, your creativity. And that, my love, is breathtaking."
He paused, his fingers interlacing with mine. "And if it’s not what you envisioned," he continued, his voice laced with a tenderness that made my heart ache, "then we try again. We keep trying until you feel it’s right. Or we do sothing else entirely." He nuzzled my hair. "Whatever brings you that spark, that joy you had when you wanted to paint and when you were painting."
His words were a balm, soothing the tempest brewing within . He didn’t understand the full depth of my overreaction, not yet. The hormones, the fear, the overwhelming tidal wave of emotions that ca with carrying his child – they were all swirling together, making hyper-sensitive to everything. But he accepted my distress without judgnt, offering comfort and reassurance.
He gently pulled closer. "So, no," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my body. "It’s not ugly. It’s magnificent. It’s a masterpiece because you created it. And I’m your admirer. Your very willing, very grateful admirer."
"And if it makes you cry, then we’ll find a way to make you smile again. And then we’ll shower it off and do it again tomorrow if you wish."
Tears clung stubbornly to my lashes as I pressed my forehead to his. "You’re too good to , husband," I whispered.
His breath hitched, his hands tightening just slightly at my waist. For a heartbeat, he froze—then he let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan, like the word had struck him sowhere deep. "Say that again," he whispered, not as a demand but as a plea.
My lips trembled, but I said it anyway, firr this ti, letting the truth settle between us. "My husband."
Adrien’s eyes closed, as if he was holding the words inside his chest, branding them there. When he opened them again, the amber was molten. "God help ," he breathed. "That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever painted."
Then, gently, he caught my hands. Paint smudged across my knuckles, streaked over my fingertips—ssy, imperfect, mine. He lifted them to his lips, kissing each stain like it was sacred. The brush marks might wash away, but the way he lingered on them, the way he kissed them with quiet reverence, made them immortal.
His gaze rose to mine, steady and raw. "No canvas, no artist, no masterpiece in any gallery on earth could ever compare to this. To you. You’re it, Isabella. My only work of art worth worshiping."
The tears finally slipped free, but this ti, they didn’t sting.
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