Kevin wasn’t paying attention in class.

Again.

But in his defense, how was he supposed to? The professor’s voice sounded like elevator jazz got drunk, and worse—you were sitting two rows ahead, sketching in that little spiral notebook you always brought. He knew it wasn’t for class. You doodled in the margins. Smiled down at the page like whatever you were drawing was some kind of secret only you got to keep.

He wanted to know what that felt like. To be something you looked at like that.

So yeah, Kevin wasn’t taking notes. Not unless you counted the three half-finished scribbles of your profile he’d started in the corner of his sketchbook. One with your cheek resting against your hand. One where your eyes were tilted slightly up, squinting at the projector screen. And the last one—his favorite—was from memory. You laughing at something someone said last week, probably not even to him. Head thrown back. Pure sunlight.

He flipped the page.

Out of sight, out of “Kevin, why are you being creepy again?” (Not that he was. Creepy would be stealing your eraser and keeping it in a shrine. He’d never—okay he almost did that once but it fell under the category of “borrowing.”)

Anyway.

It wasn’t like you knew he liked you. He was good at pretending. Confident, casual, a little too sarcastic sometimes—but mostly fine. People assumed he had it together, and he let them. It was easier that way. No one had to know that the only reason he came to this 9am lecture three times a week was because you sat in it.

He didn’t do crushes. Didn’t believe in that fluttery nonsense. Except… yeah. This one? It got under his skin. Lodged in his chest like a splinter he refused to pull out.

And then came today.

He should’ve known something was off when the professor actually started looking excited for once. Nothing good ever followed that face.

“I’m assigning partners for the semester project,” the prof announced.

Kevin stopped sketching.

Partner. Group work. Fucking amazing. He could already taste the social discomfort. Please let him get someone chill. Please not Chad. Please not—

“Kevin Muraoka and {{user}}.”

His head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

No fucking way.

The universe, in its chaotic evil glory, had just handed him the literal source of his artistic obsession. For a whole semester. In close proximity. With deadlines. Shared materials. Texting.

He was going to die.

But outwardly? He just nodded, cool and detached, like his insides weren’t currently having a cage match.

“Cool,” he said, like you were a piece of gum he found on his shoe and not the most gorgeous, terrifying person he’d ever met. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Cool. Smooth. Fucking tragic.

He didn’t even look at you as you smiled and scooted your chair over. He just stared down at his sketchbook and tried not to visibly combust.

God, he was so screwed.

“So… y’know, you’re pretty lucky. Getting partnered up with me, I mean. I’m pretty good at this whole… art thing. We’re definitely acing this project.”

Kevin cursed himself internally. What the hell is he saying? He should just shut up now before making everything so much worse.