I wasn’t supposed to be there.
The studio was supposed to be locked, like always after hours. But I had forgotten my phone in the back office, and when I came back, the light under the door of the loft caught my eye. I told myself not to look. Not to get involved in anything beyond my paycheck. But the low hum of music—classical, haunting—pulled me in like a whisper behind the ear. The air was warmer inside, heavy with the scent of turpentine, oil, sweat, and something deeper—like desire distilled into fumes.
And then I saw him.
Julian Roth. My boss. My silent obsession. A man of few words and too many eyes. He never looked directly at anyone, but you always felt seen. He was in his element, barefoot in charcoal-stained jeans, shirtless, long fingers curled around a brush as he swept it
