It was one sunny morning when the Writer noticed the Artist more than necessary.

The writer noticed how her flatmate was sneaking glances at what she was doing – typing – and asked her several questions involving writing. She had to clear it to the Artist that she cannot provide writing tips; she sucks at giving tips.

It wasn't like the Artist was subtle either. She entered the Writer's room, without permission, and watch the Writer do her thing.

Type.

Type.

Browse queer stuff.

Type.

Coffee.

Type.

Answer some questions.

Browse cat stuff.

And coffee.

And while doing so, the Artist was taking notes of the things she could use.

The Writer, noticed how the Artist was quiet yet jotting notes about something, removed her headphones from her head and turned to the Artist. The sound of a foreign rock band -Japanese - was loud that it can be heard from the earcups.

"What are you doing?" the Writer drawled with a raised brow. Her eyes narrowed and focused on how the Artist had her tongue poking at the side of her lips while taking notes. A habit the Artist has when she was working on something important.

The Artist stopped writing and faced the Writer a carefree grin. "Hmmm, nothing. Just jotting down notes."

The Writer didn't believe that the Artist was 'just' taking notes. The way those eyes of the Artist gleam when she was writing on her pad paper, her smile showing her dimples, and the nodding of her head as if she got an 'aha!' moment. No. It was not 'just' taking writing notes. "And why, may the goddess Sága guide me, are you taking notes? As far as I know, you're an artist and not a writer."

The Artist stopped writing and placed her pen on the pad paper. "Caught on, huh? And hey, we Artist can write too!" the Writer eyed her skeptically and she sighed in defeat. She played with her pen, rolling it in between her thumb and index finger. She then looked at her paper and the scribbles on it. "I'm trying to write something. Something I can't really draw. Well I can draw it but I can't seem to capture what I need to express."

The Writer eyed the Artist and saw that she was indeed serious. "Okay? So you wrote it yet? What were you trying to write anyway?"

"Yeah. I'm writing the part of describing a scent. Like you know, a cologne scent to be exact." She stopped playing with her pen.

"Describe it?" the Writer moved closer to the Artist. Their topic piqued her interest. It was uncommon for her flatmate to even ask about writing tips or write something other than her character dialogues. The Artist, as the Writer saw her, was talented and can express anything in her works. So to see her asking for writing advice? Inwardly, the Writer was smiling; flattered even.

The Artist took a deep breath and began to explain the gnawing need to be written on paper. "I know the brand. I know the name of the scent. I can draw the container. But to express it?" she looked at her scribbled notes and squinted her eyes, trying to decipher what she already wrote. All of them doesn't fit what she needed to let out. "It's smells kinda like grass? I think. A freshly mowed lawn early in the morning?" she was unsure of how to describe it.

"And you have a start. Comparing it to a lawn is a good way to express it, all you have to do is to write it on paper." the Writer was impressed at how the Artist was able to come up with those words.

The Artist shook her head. "No..."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"It's still not enough to express it." The Artist, smile replaced by a serious expression akin to the Writer's usual stoic ones, faced the Writer and held her hands.

The Writer was taken aback by the sudden change of atmosphere and couldn't help but gaze back at those rare serious stares of the happy-go-lucky Artist.

"That cologne... When i smelled it on her, my nose buried on her neck, I felt nothing but pure bliss. It made my heart skip a beat, my eyes to close, and my lips to curve upward; savoring the scent at each intake of breath. There was a gnawing feeling inside me, temptation to inhale it even more and hold her closer to me. Like every part of me craved for her scent like my life would perish without it," said the Artist, pulling the Writer's hands near her lips and placed a gentle kiss on both the Writer's knuckles.

The Writer was speechless. Stunned and speechless.

When the Artist released her hold on the Writer's hands, she faced the stunned woman with a childish smile. An innocent one as if she didn't do damage to her flatmate's mentality and emotions. "Soooo did I do it right? The whole express thing?" she asked with a puppy-like curious expression on her face.

The Writer snapped out of her daze and knitted her brows. Reeling in her bearings, coming to a conclusion that she was being teased by the Artist, she whipped her right hand towards the direction of the door. "OUT!" she growled, glaring at the Artist in annoyance.

The Artist, guessed that she went overboard with the kiss, laughed and left the Writer's room.

After Artist went out and closed the door, the Writer leaned back on her seat and clutched the fabric on her chest.

"Dear heart.... That was... Goddess Sága..."