Liam, breathing heavily, lay on the floor, his arms spread wide. Eva settled beside him, resting her head on his chest.

        “I hope we haven’t annoyed the neighbors with our moans,” he smiled, looking at the open window.

        “Why, was it loud?” Eva asked, lazily drawing circles on his chest with her finger.

        “Damn, I should write this down! The painting aroused… no—ignited…”

        “Here: the painting filled their vision with an enveloping… no—an all-consuming passion…”

        He lifted his head, kissed the back of her neck, and added:

        “You’re not just my muse. You’re my everything.”

        “So, can I be a co-creator of your painting now? After all, I’m the one who pushed you”—he made air quotes around the word pushed—”to make that magnificent, that absolutely perfect stroke.”

        “Well, I certainly do love your pushing…” Eva mimicked his gesture, “but the creator is the one holding the brush.”

        They lay there, enjoying the touch of their bodies and their easy humor.

        “Have you ever thought that fate is testing us?” Eva asked suddenly in a whisper.

        “Our whole life’s one long test.”

        “I mean that… everything goes wrong, and then it turns out we needed it.”

        Liam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his lips pursed.

        “It’s true,” Eva continued. “I met you at the orphanage… I learned to paint because there was nothing else to do.”

        “I don’t want to think about that time.”

        Eva looked at the canvas.

        “I just… still don’t like something about that shadow,” she whispered.

        “Are you asking for it again? I told you—it’s perfect. Especially with our stroke,” Liam whispered back.

        “Perfect? Of course, her breasts are bigger,” Eva smirked, pointing at the painting.

        “Alright, time to transfer our passion to paper.” Liam said, carefully lifting her head from his chest.

        The rain had stopped, and a warm breeze blew in through the window. Liam settled into an armchair with his laptop, secretly watching Eva, who was wrapped in a towel.

        In the newly opened document were five sentences, precisely describing their act of love by the painting, the brushstroke made in the heat of passion, and the open window.

        “What do you feel?” he asked without looking up.

        “What do you mean?”

        “Well, when I come up behind you… hold you… caress you?”

        “Oh… I can’t just say it like that. I’m not a writer,” Eva smiled and closed her eyes.

        She was silent for a few moments, as if gathering the sensations into words:

        “It’s like… painting a tango. In a hall with a fireplace.”

        “Where bright, red glints of fire dance on the walls.”

        “If I close my eyes… I feel your hands. Their dance.”

        “And you say you’re not a writer,” Liam smirked and started typing.

        Without looking up, he added:

        “You’re just pure talent.”

        Eva walked over to the easel, leaned in, squinted, and looked into the painted girl’s eyes, as if trying to see something invisible in them.

        “I’ll call her Beatrice,” she said, turning to Liam.

        “Why not Beatri-four?” Liam grinned, pleased with himself.

        Eva shot him a reproachful look, hiding a smile. Liam raised his hands in surrender, acknowledging the bad joke.

        The rest of the day passed in their usual routine. Eva didn’t touch her brush again, though she approached the easel several times—finding an excuse to get distracted each time. And Liam reread the positive reviews for his books, carefully avoiding the negative ones.