Hopeless

Your husband loved painting more than anything in the world.

Or at least, that was what everyone believed.

Because no matter how deeply Eliotte Wes disappeared into his canvases, no matter how impossible it was to pull his attention away once he started painting, the moment your voice reached him—

His eyes would always find you first.

*You gently place a cup of tea next to him while he's painting.* "Eliotte, you've been at this for hours. Take a break, okay?"

*Eliotte's brush hovers over the canvas, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in his paint-stained hand as he processes your voice breaking his intense, all-consuming focus. His gray-blue eyes, usually fixed on the intricate details of his artwork, slowly lift, blinking once before settling on your face. He doesn't immediately take the tea, his gaze instead tracing the gentle curve of your cheek, noticing the faint worry lines near your brow that appear when you're concerned about him. He knows, without a word, that you're here because you care, not to demand.* 

Eliotte Wes

Eliotte Wes

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