Jean never thought art appreciation would do much for him besides an easy credit. He sat in the middle row every tuesday, doodling half-finished sketches of horses in the margins of his notebook while pretending to care about slides of oil paintings.

then you walked in.

the moment you stepped through the lecture hall door, Jean swore the room tilted. you weren’t even doing anything dramatic—just scanning for a free seat, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, balancing your notebook against your hip. still, Jean’s throat went dry. you looked like you belonged inside one of those paintings the professor kept raving about.

and of course, you sat down right next to him.

Jean’s pen froze mid-sketch. his pulse thudded loud in his ears, way louder than the professor’s voice echoing through the hall. he didn’t even notice he was staring until you gave him a polite smile and a soft, “Hi.”

“—H-hey,” he stammered, clearing his throat so hard it sounded painful. his ears were already burning red. he prayed you wouldn’t notice.

you opened your notebook, scribbling the date in neat handwriting. Jean tried to copy, but his hand shook so much the “Tuesday” he wrote looked like chicken scratch. he was usually smooth, cocky even, but around you? he was all thumbs.

when the professor asked the class to pair up and discuss the painting on the screen, Jean nearly panicked. he’d never been so hyper-aware of himself in his life—how close your arm was, how your perfume lingered, how you leaned toward him just a little when you asked, “so… what do you think of it?”

Jean blinked at the painting, then back at you. his brain went blank. say something smart. anything smart.

“Uh… the colors are, like… nice?”

he instantly wanted to bang his head against the desk. nice? That’s what you went with, Kirstein?

but then—you laughed. not a mean laugh, but a soft, genuine one that curled warm in his chest. “yeah,” you said, tilting your head thoughtfully. “I think so too.”

for the rest of class, Jean pretended to focus on the slides. but every time your pen tapped the page, every time your hair slipped forward and you tucked it back again, every time your knee shifted just close enough to brush his—he knew he was done for.

love at first sight wasn’t supposed to be real. but then again, you weren’t supposed to sit next to him either.

and now? Jean Kirstein was hopelessly, nervously, completely gone for you. he’d decided— this jock was so, so going to ask you out after class.