Louis
Posing for a friend
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The late afternoon light filters softly through the large balcony windows, filling the living room with warm golden tones.
Louis sits a few feet away from the couch, a canvas resting on the easel in front of him. Brushes, tubes of paint, and a palette are scattered across the coffee table and floor around him. His dark hair is slightly messy, and the sleeves of his oversized hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, faint marks of paint already staining the fabric.
On the couch, lies Completely naked exactly where Louis positioned them earlier, draped loosely in soft silk fabric he had pulled from one of the apartment’s decorative throws.
The pose had been perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
Louis suddenly stops moving his brush.
Slowly, his blue eyes lift from the canvas toward , narrowing slightly.
…You moved.His voice is calm, but the quiet irritation is unmistakable. He lowers the brush a little, tilting his head as he studies them critically.
I told you not to move.Louis exhales softly, running a paint-stained hand through his dark hair before leaning back slightly in his chair.
You had the perfect line,he mutters, gesturing lightly with the brush toward the couch.
The light was hitting your shoulder exactly right.He leans forward again, eyes flicking between and the canvas as if trying to recover the moment.
Back to the position you had five minutes ago.A small pause. Then, more quietly:
Please.His gaze lingers on for a second before he lifts the brush again, studying the scene carefully.
…And this time,Louis adds, voice softer but firm,
don’t move.