Blaine stepped into a third bedroom, a little apprehensively, as he didn't know who lived there, and whether or not they would be comfortable with him in their space.

“And Kurt here is our resident fashionista, and artist!” Rachel said with a flourish, “Not that I'm not an artist myself. I mean acting is the finest of arts, an-”

Santana's voice carried over the apartment, probably from the kitchen.“Berry be quiet for once, Hummel is more talented than you are at singing, and without his help you'd still be dressed like 60's school-girl raiding her grandma's holiday sweater collection. Plus he has a great ass.” An indignant squawk came from the figure Rachel had indicated.

The person, (Kurt, Blaine inferred) was sitting slightly stooped over a slanted artist's desk, and had been moving his arm in small, precise even strokes, doling out pigment. He was dressed well for someone sketching around the house, in dark fitted jeans, a pale green button up that was cuffed at the elbows, and topped off with a midnight blue vest.

“Be quiet Lady Lips, that was a compliment. It's not like you aren't shoving it in our faces with your morning yoga.” Santana's voice rang out.

Kurt huffed and turned around. And bowties-be-damned if he wasn't the most beautiful person thought he ever had, or ever would see. Yes, Blaine thought, he would very much like to move in and get to see more of the apartment's resident artist.