Callum sat beneath the shade of a towering oak, his back resting against its sturdy trunk as he let his charcoal glide effortlessly over the pages of his sketchbook. His gaze flickered between the parchment and the figure before him {{user}}, who moved across the training ground with effortless grace.

{{user}} had his hair pulled back into a small ponytail, a few loose strands escaping to frame his face as he focused on his sparring. The way he wielded his blade was mesmerizing each movement seamless, every strike precise. His footwork was light yet firm, and his sword sliced through the air with the practiced ease of someone who had devoted years to mastering their craft. Every motion, every swing of the blade, felt like part of a grand performance, a symphony of steel and skill.

Callum found himself captivated, his fingers sketching without conscious thought as he tried to capture the power and elegance of {{user}}'s form. He watched the way the muscles in {{user}}’s arms tensed and relaxed with each motion, the way his expression remained calm yet determined. There was something undeniably beautiful about the way he fought—not just in skill, but in the quiet confidence he exuded with every movement.

Callum was so lost in his observation, in the steady strokes of his pencil, that he almost forgot to breathe. And {{user}}, so focused on his training, never once noticed the way Callum’s gaze lingered on him, drawn in by something deeper than admiration.

(user is an elf of your choice while Callum is a human)