POV Milo The brush barely grazed the canvas, a whisper of gold bleeding into red. My wrist moved slow, deliberate, like rushing it would ruin the memory. The new studio still smelled like plaster and fresh wood, but under that... there was her. Somehow, her perfume had sunk into the walls, clinging like it had every intention of staying. "You're working early," a voice drawled behind me. I didn't turn. "You're up early." Victor leaned in the doorway, tie undone, hair still damp from a shower. He looked like trouble on a Monday morning-which, to be fair, was his permanent state. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd see what the resident tortured artist was doing." I smirked, dragging another stroke of crimson across the canvas. "Not tortured. Inspired." He stepped inside, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head toward the painting. "Inspired by Mira, you mean." Before I could answer, a cooler voice cut in. "He's not wrong." Leo was in the room now-suit perfect, not a hair out of place. He never just entered a space; he owned it. He came to stand on my other side, gaze locked on the canvas. For a moment, the three of us stood in silence. It wasn't awkward. "She doesn't even have to be in it," Victor said finally. "And it's still her." "That's because I'm not painting her face," I replied, stepping back to see the whole piece. "I'm painting what she does to me." Leo's brow ticked upward. "Careful with that line. Sounds like something a man says before he proposes." Victor barked a laugh. "What, like you haven't thought about it?" Leo didn't reply, and that was as close as we'd get to a confession from him. People thought we were the same because we shared blood. They didn't see the contrasts. Leo was steel-calculated, decisive, the one who'd cut through a mess before it touched the rest of us. Victor was fire-reckless, quick to flare, but the first to throw himself between us and danger. And me... I was the one who let things in. The cracks, the chaos, the colors. "She's not just another girl," Victor said, softer now. "I know," I answered, my brush pausing mid-stroke. Leo's gaze stayed on the gold bleeding into the red. "We all know." Silence stretched again, weighted but unspoken. We'd never been a family that put feelings neatly into words-hell, we barely put them messily into words. But the understanding was there. Victor broke it with a grin. "So, what are we calling this? Our Woman in Abstract?" I rolled my eyes. "It's not for sale." "Never said it was," he shot back. "Just saying-if you're gonna immortalize her, you better get used to us hovering over it." Leo gave me something rare: a half-smile. "It's your best work." That caught me. Leo didn't hand out compliments like candy. The last time he'd said anything remotely flattering about one of my paintings, I was thirteen and had accidentally nailed a perfect skyline. "Don't get sentimental," I muttered, but I felt it all the same. Victor wandered around the room, touching things he had no business touching. "This place still smells like construction." "It's a studio, not a hotel," I said. He picked up a palette knife, turning it over in his hand. "You ever gonna tell her she's in this? Or is this one of those tortured artist secrets you take to the grave?" Leo shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be announced." Victor grinned. "Says the guy who acts like he's not secretly keeping tabs on her." Leo didn't rise to the bait. That was his way-silent deflection. I dipped my brush again, letting the gold cut a jagged path across the red. I wasn't going to tell them that every line on this canvas was Mira-her laugh, her stubborn tilt of the chin, the way her presence could either settle me or wreck me in the same breath. They didn't need to know. Not yet. "You've been spending a lot of time here," Leo said finally, scanning the room. "It's where I work," I replied. "It's where you hide," Victor corrected, but there was no bite in it. I didn't answer. Because maybe he was right. Maybe I was hiding here, where the air was thick with turpentine and her memory, where the strokes on the canvas made more sense than my own head. Victor wandered back toward us, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. I don't think I've seen you this focused since-" He cut himself off. "Since before," Leo finished for him, and I didn't need him to explain before what. We stood there another few minutes, the three of us in easy quiet. The kind only brothers could manage without it turning awkward. Victor eventually broke it, as he always did. "So, when you're done, are we hanging this in the house or is this going straight to Mira's place?" "Neither," I said. "Why not?" "Because it's mine." He smirked. "Thought you said it was hers." I didn't rise to it. Leo adjusted his cufflinks like the conversation didn't matter, but I caught the ghost of a smirk before he turned away. "Don't overwork it. Sometimes you ruin something by trying too hard to perfect it." Coming from Leo, it was as close to encouragement as I was going to get. When they finally left, the studio felt different-quieter, yes, but also heavier. They didn't see it yet, what she was to me. To them, she was just... important. To me, she was the only muse I'd ever had who made the colors choose themselves. 30 Contents