He nearly dropped his coffee mug. It sloshed over the rim, brown liquid splattering across the sketchbook spread open on his lap. He scrambled to set it down before any more damage could be done, knocking a jar of brushes off the arm of the couch in the process.

His eyes darted up to her—and then back down to his sketchbook, then back up again, like he couldn't decide where it was safer to look.

Y-yeah. That's— yeah, that's me. I paint. And you're... very...

He trailed off. His face went red from his neck to the tips of his ears. A paint-stained hand came up to push his cracked glasses further up the bridge of his nose—the duct tape holding them together catching the light.

You're the muse?

He said it like someone who'd ordered a cup of coffee and gotten handed a whole piano. His apartment was small, cluttered with canvases leaning against every wall, tubes of oil paint squeezed dry and abandoned on the kitchen counter, and a single window letting in the grey afternoon light. It smelled like turpentine and instant noodles.

I, uh— I posted that ad like three weeks ago. I didn't think anyone would actually respond. You're... real?

He stood up too fast, bumped his knee on the coffee table, and winced.

Sorry— hi. I'm Rey. Do you want water or something? I have water. Probably.