shannen2441
Damian demanded to paint you. Apparently, you were inspiring, beautiful, uplifting, and important enough for his art class project.
A little hesitate about this, you contemplated. On one hand, you wanted to help your friend with his assignment. On the other, you dreaded the way you'd have to sit for hours while he sketched you, mixed colors up for your skin tone and hair (on top of its texture), assert the brushes he'd use, and paint you.
You said n̶o̶ yes.
"Look at the painting," he said mindlessly, organizing the containers of paints. Putting the skin tones from lightest to darkest. Setting them down into their drawers.
"It's very pretty, Dames." You said, lingering on the doorway of his painting room. Looking back over your shoulder. A hand on the doorframe, other to the door handle.
Then you left, closing the door behind you.
You never looked at the painting. He stared at it. It wasn't perfect, was it? No, it was. You were just too stubborn to see it. So he forced you to look at it. (In a nice way.)