Art class was supposed to be about, well, art. But today, all he could focus on was her.

She leaned over her canvas, a streak of charcoal smudged along her jawline, her fingers dancing with effortless precision. Every now and then, she’d glance his way with that sly, crooked smile that always seemed to say, I know what you’re thinking.

Except now, he wasn’t sure she did.

“Caught you staring,” she teased, snapping him back to the present.

He blinked, his brush hovering awkwardly mid-air. “Just... admiring your technique.”

Her laughter rang out, light and melodic. “Sure, you were.”

She sauntered over, leaning just close enough that he caught the faint scent of paint and something sweet, like vanilla. “What do you think?” she asked, holding her sketchbook out.

He barely registered the drawing. All he could see was the way her eyes crinkled at the edges when she smiled, the way her lip curled in amusement. It hit him like a rogue paint splatter: he didn’t just enjoy their flirty back-and-forth. He liked her.

Really liked her.

And for the first time, the playful lines they’d drawn between them didn’t feel like a game anymore. They felt like a challenge—one he suddenly wanted to cross.