𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝓔𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

⭒°ˑ˚。﹒∙♡☼⭒°ˑ˚。﹒∙

I sat by my window, the sunlight softly pouring in, casting a golden glow over my sketchbook. The quiet hum of the world outside felt distant as I lost myself in the familiar rhythm of my pencil moving across the paper. Drawing had always been my escape, a safe space where the chaos of my life couldn't reach me. Art wasn't just a hobby—it was my passion, my way of expressing the things I couldn't say out loud.

I flipped the page of my sketchbook, running my fingers over the rough edges. I missed university. I missed the smell of paint, the sound of pencils scratching on canvas, and the freedom to immerse myself in creating. One day, I wanted to go back—no, I needed to go back. I wanted to travel the world, visit the great art museums in Paris, Florence, and New York, to see the works that inspired me to pick up a pencil in the first place.

 Someday, maybe, my own work would hang on those walls. The thought made my heart flutter.

As I turned to a blank page, my thoughts drifted to Luciano. Without thinking, I began to sketch him, starting with the sharp angles of his jaw. His face was unforgettable, almost too perfect—like someone carved it from stone.

 I let my pencil trace the strong lines of his cheekbones, the slight curve of his lips, always set in that stern, unreadable expression. He was a mystery, one I couldn't quite figure out, no matter how much I tried. Cold, distant, always in control—that was Luciano.

But there was more to him. I could feel it, even if he kept that part of himself locked away. His eyes... dark and intense, they always seemed to be watching, calculating. I began shading the contours of his brow, imagining the way those eyes would look when they softened—if they ever did. 

Would they ever look at me with warmth? Or would they always be like this—hard, impenetrable, hiding whatever it was he felt inside?

My pencil paused as I thought about the last few days. He was always so reserved, never giving away much, yet I couldn't help but feel drawn to him.

Maybe it was the challenge of it—the desire to break through that cold exterior and see what lay beneath. I started to sketch his lips, slightly parted as if he was about to speak. His words were always calculated, sharp.

He never wasted a breath. I wondered what it would be like to see him smile, a real smile that softened the edges of his harsh features.

He was different from anyone I'd ever met. There was something dangerous about him, something untouchable, and yet I found myself thinking about him more and more. He was powerful, the kind of man who commanded attention without even trying. But beneath all that power, was there a part of him that felt... vulnerable? Or was he as cold as he seemed?

I started to draw his shoulders, broad and strong, the way they always seemed tense, as if he was carrying the weight of the world. He rarely relaxed, always on edge, always in control. My pencil moved with more intent now, sketching the tailored lines of his suit, the way it fit him perfectly. Everything about him screamed power, dominance. And yet, there was something about him that made me feel... safe, in a strange way.

I smirked to myself as I drew his hair, the dark, thick waves that always seemed perfectly in place. He was meticulous in every way, never letting a single thing slip out of order. And yet, I wondered what he was like when no one was watching. Did he ever let his guard down? Did he ever laugh, really laugh? Or was he always this controlled, this... untouchable?

As I shaded the final details of his face, I couldn't help but feel a sense of possessiveness creep into my thoughts. Luciano was dangerous, yes, but there was something magnetic about him. I liked the idea that he didn't even know how much space he had taken up in my mind.

He was mine—even if he didn't know it yet. The thought made me smile as I added the final touches to his sketch.

I leaned back, studying the image on the page. He looked so real, as if he could step right out of the paper and into my room. I traced the lines of his jaw with my finger, admiring how strong and sure he looked. Cold, yes—but also undeniably captivating.

With a soft sigh, I closed the sketchbook, knowing that no matter how many times I drew him, I would never fully capture the complexity of Luciano. He was a puzzle, one I wasn't sure I'd ever solve, but part of me wanted to keep trying.

⭒°ˑ˚。﹒∙♡☼⭒°ˑ˚。﹒∙

short chapter