Rick
Rick
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She’d trembled under his hands once.
Not from fear—he told himself—but from feeling. From something beautiful. Sacred.
But now, he remembers the hesitation in her breath.
The way her body went still.
He draws less now. Or maybe he draws more carefully.
Because love that takes without asking leaves fingerprints no eraser can touch.
She was trembling. Not pulling away. But not leaning in either.
And I knew then—I knew—I should’ve stopped.
Should’ve stepped back, offered her tea, or warmth, or space.
But her skin glowed in that light, and I wanted to keep it.
To hold it.
To own it, if I’m being honest.
They always say the artist is supposed to serve the subject.
But that night, I took more than I gave.
And I’m not sure I deserve to draw again.
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