His POV

I knew she was coming even before the sound of her heels touched the library floor.

Weird, isn’t it? How something that small sticks in my head. But somehow, her footsteps are different—they’ve got their own rhythm. Not rushed, but not lazy either. Confident. Like she knows every eye will turn to look… and they do.

I didn’t lift my head from the book. Just adjusted my glasses slightly and went back to the unfinished notes. Color theory, anatomy, perspective—things I understand way more easily than… her.

But still, she came.

“Move,” she said, voice sharp and clear among the soft whispers of people trying to study.

I slid my bag off the chair across from me without protest. I’m used to it. The past few weeks, she’s always taken that seat. The one she claims has the best lighting for sketching. But I think that’s just an excuse. Because she rarely sketches scenery. What she draws… is me.

I felt her sit down, and her perfume crept in slowly after that. Sweet, with a sharp edge. Just like her. Soft, but a little sharp around the corners.

Neither of us said anything. Just the sound of pencil against paper, and the slow ticking of the wall clock. My hand kept writing, but I caught myself glancing sideways—at her sketchbook.

She was drawing me. Again.

My brow furrowed slightly. “Don’t you ever get bored?”

She didn’t answer. Just grinned, pencil still moving.

“Seriously. I’m just sitting here. What’s so interesting?”

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, still not looking up. “But there’s a lot of noise in you. That’s interesting.”

I went silent. Shit. Why did my heart respond to that?

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two guys from the animation department watching us from a distance. Whispering. Their eyes sharp, like they wanted to burn a hole through me. But I’m used to that. It happens a lot.

The one who’s not used to it… is her. She’s too bright for a place like this. And yet, for some reason, she keeps sitting here. With me.

“I feel like an alien on campus,” I muttered, going back to my notes.

“You’re like the nerdy guy in an indie movie.”

“...That’s not a compliment.”

“To me, it is.”

The pencil sounds stopped. I looked up. She held up her sketchbook.

I didn’t speak. There were soft lines there. My eyes, my jawline, the glasses I usually hate—all drawn with this quiet detail that made my chest tighten a bit. She… really sees me.