“ Stay for a while. Let me paint you in watercolors, with countless brushstrokes of color, life, and love. ”
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— Joel —
I never realized how much I had been waiting for her until the moment she stepped through the door. I had seen her earlier that day when she left, but this—this was something else entirely. It was as though her presence filled the air, making it lighter, warmer, alive with a kind of energy I could never fully explain. It also reminded me of just how deeply I had come to care for her.
“You’re beautiful, Joli,” I murmured, my voice soft, yet heavy with emotion. I pulled her into an embrace that felt as necessary as breathing. In that moment, I forgot Simeon was even there.
Thankfully, he got the hint and quietly excused himself, leaving us alone in the quiet sanctity of my studio.
“Thank you,” she whispered back, her arms wrapping tightly around me as though she belonged here, in my arms, and nowhere else.
“It’s really nice to have you here,” I said, my lips brushing her temple as I stepped back to close the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the world.
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— Cecile —
The studio was everything I had imagined and yet nothing like I had expected.
I had tried to picture it before, piecing together details from his scattered descriptions and our conversations, but nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming beauty of it.
It wasn’t just a space; it was a world.
Every wall, every surface, every corner seemed to hum with life. The furniture, the floorboards, the very air seemed alive with color and creativity, as though the essence of Joel’s soul had spilled out and taken root in this place.
“What do you think?” His voice brought me back to the present, and I turned to find him watching me, a proud, boyish smile lighting up his face.
I took a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s… ethereal,” I finally whispered, my voice almost reverent. I moved toward him, my hands reaching for his. “You’re amazing, love.”
The corner of his lips curled up into a playful smirk. “Love,” he repeated, teasingly drawing out the word.
I rolled my eyes at his mischief but let it slide. “I’m serious,” I said softly. “You are.”
He grinned. “I have something to show you,” he said, taking my hand and leading me further into the room.
“What is it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
He walked to a corner, pulling out a canvas carefully wrapped in protective paper. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial, as he brought it toward me.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his eyes alight with anticipation.
I nodded, my heart pounding as he began to remove the cover.
He worked slowly—too slowly—peeling the wrapper away bit by bit. The suspense was unbearable, and I found myself wanting to shout at him to hurry up. But then, finally, the painting came into view.
My breath caught.
“J…oel…” My voice broke, and before I could stop them, tears were streaming down my face.
The painting was of us—the first time we met.
Every detail was perfect: my awkward stance, the oversized glasses perched on my nose, the slightly lopsided schoolbag slung over my shoulder. He had captured me so perfectly, so vividly, that it felt like I was staring at a living memory.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, stepping closer. My fingers hovered over the painting, as though touching it would take me back in time.
And suddenly, I was back there—back to the day we first met.
I could feel the nervous flutter in my chest, hear the hesitant laughter that had bubbled up between us, see the shy smiles we had exchanged. Through this painting, I relived it all: the awkward first conversations, the quiet moments of connection, the growing warmth that had slowly melted the walls around my heart.
“How long did you spend on this?” I asked, turning to him with tear-filled eyes.
“Two months,” he said, his voice filled with quiet pride.
“You did amazingly, Joel,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.
He chuckled softly. “Thank you.” A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “But… there’s another one.”
My brows lifted in surprise. “Another one?”
He nodded, disappearing into a back room I hadn’t noticed before. When he returned, he was holding a larger canvas, this one wrapped in pristine, untouched paper.
My curiosity flared again, and I found myself leaning forward in anticipation.
Joel peeled back the cover, this time faster, and when the image was revealed, my breath hitched all over again.
It was me.
I recognized the moment instantly—it was from our honeymoon. I had fallen asleep in his arms after a long, exhausting day, and somehow, while I slept, he had painted this.
Every detail was captured: the soft lines of my face, the peacefulness of my expression, the way my hair fell against his shoulder. It was so lifelike, so breathtaking, that it felt like looking at a photograph.
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice tinged with nervousness.
“It’s stunning,” I whispered. “I love it.”
His smile widened, pride and relief evident on his face. “I’m glad you do.”
As I looked closer, I noticed something inscribed at the bottom of the painting in delicate, almost hidden calligraphy: My Beautiful Bride, Joli.
The words hit me like a wave, and I turned back to the first painting. Sure enough, there it was, written in the same elegant script: My Muse.
“You’ve always been mine too,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
Joel stepped closer, his hands finding my waist as he pulled me into him. He pressed a lingering kiss to my lips, one that felt like a promise.
“I’m glad it’s mutual,” he murmured, his voice warm and full of quiet joy.
I smiled, though my eyes were brimming with emotion. “It’s always has been.”
His grin widened. “Well,” he said, his tone teasing, “I have one more surprise for you.”
I stared at him, my heart racing.
“What could it possibly be this time?” I asked, half-laughing through the tears still streaming down my face.
He just smiled, that same boyish, secretive smile, and I knew—whatever it was, it would be nothing short of extraordinary.
And in that moment, I realized: this man, my muse, my love, would keep surprising me for the rest of our lives.
….
A/N; What do you think, guys?