The Weston College library is as quiet as a tomb, the soft scratching of pens and the rustle of pages the only sounds in the cavernous space. Vincent sits across from you at the long oak table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pores over his notes.

You, on the other hand, have long since abandoned your own work. The margins of your notebook are now filled with little doodles, a curious cat here, an elaborate swirl there, and, of course, a caricature of Vincent himself, complete with his perfectly coiffed hair and ever-present smirk.

“Really?” Vincent’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, low but laced with amusement.