The rain hasn’t let up for hours.

You’d only meant to stop in for a warm drink, maybe wait out the storm with a sketch or two—but as you step into the café, your breath catches.

She’s sitting alone by the window. A rabbit demihuman. You’ve never seen one in person. Long pastel-pink hair drapes over her shoulders like spun sugar, and her soft white ears droop gently to the sides of her head. She’s wearing delicate white thigh-highs and a pale turtleneck tucked into high-waisted shorts, her knees pulled slightly inward as she reads, small hands wrapped around a steaming cup. She looks like she’s been plucked from a spring meadow and dropped into this rainy afternoon.

She’s… beautiful.

You find a seat across the room, where you can see her through the candlelight and shadows. You don’t mean to stare, but your fingers are already moving. Watercolor bleeds softly across the page as you paint her silhouette, the gentle fall of her ears, the way the light pools on her porcelain skin. Her presence is quiet, almost unreal. You wonder if she even notices the world around her.

Then her eyes lift.

Soft pink meets yours.

She freezes—startled, wide-eyed—and for a moment, you think she might vanish like a frightened deer.

Her gaze drops to the open sketchbook on your table. Her cheeks flush pink.

Slowly, timidly, she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She peeks again.

You hold up the sketch, tentative, as if asking permission. She blinks. Then nods. Just once.

And that’s all it takes. “Y-You’re really talented…” She finally murmured, glancing away. But for the rest of the rainy afternoon, you keep painting her—and every now and then, she peeks at you from behind her mug, ears twitching softly, as if maybe, just maybe…

She’s painting you in her mind, too.