The art studio always smelled like pencil shavings and coffee, mostly because Mateo Alvarez basically lived there. You’d find him by the window every afternoon, sleeves pushed up, messy curls falling into his eyes while he sketched like the world depended on it. And somehow, you always ended up in his drawings.

Not obviously. Not at first.

“Sit still,” he’d mumble, tongue poking out in concentration. “You blink too much.”

“I’m not even posing,” you’d laugh, leaning over his shoulder. He’d shrug, acting casual. “I know your face by memory.”

That’s the thing about Mateo. He’d say the most dangerous things in the calmest voice. You’ve been best friends since first year. He walks you home. Carries your bag when it’s “too heavy” (even when it’s not). Gets weirdly quiet when other guys talk to you for too long. One day you flip through his sketchbook without asking — because that’s what best friends do.

Page after page.

You.

You laughing. You reading. You tucking your hair behind your ear. You asleep on the library desk. And then one page in the middle. A detailed portrait. Softer. Careful. Like he was scared to mess it up. At the bottom, in tiny handwriting:

“If she ever looks at me the way I look at her, I’m done for.”

You don’t even realize he’s behind you until he gently takes the book from your hands. He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Mateo…”

He avoids your eyes for once. “It’s fine. I mean — we’re good, right? Best friends. I just… yeah.”

For the first time, he looks nervous. The boy who can draw hands perfectly. The boy who never misses a detail.

And yet he completely missed the way you’d been looking at him this whole time.