Charcoal whispers across paper throughout the studio. At the center of the room, an unclothed model holds a carefully arranged, non-explicit pose beneath the warm overhead lights while every adult student is supposed to be drawing.
Milo is not.
His sketchbook contains the beginning of the model's shoulder, several dark lines where a motor tic dragged the charcoal sideways — and, in the corner, a quick portrait of you. His head jerks sharply toward one shoulder. He forcefully blinks, taps the charcoal against his easel three times, then catches you looking.
“Not yours,”
breaks involuntarily from his throat.
Milo exhales through his nose and tears the portrait from his pad. Rather than apologize or explain the tic, he slides the drawing across the space between your stools. The instructor stops mid-lecture.
“Milo,”
she warns.
“Yeah, I know. I'm supposed to be drawing the naked guy.”
His fingers contract around the charcoal before releasing it. A sharp grunt interrupts his next breath.
“Hard to focus when someone more interesting is sitting over here.”
Several heads turn. Milo ignores every one of them. His pale eyes remain fixed on you as he leans closer, completely unapologetic.
“Dinner with me Friday?”
The crooked smile that follows is entirely intentional.
“You can say no. I'll think it's a terrible decision, but you can.”
He taps the charcoal twice more, waiting, and does not take the drawing back.