The art room smells faintly of paint and sharpened pencils, the afternoon sun filtering in through tall windows. You’ve been chosen as the model for today’s sketching exercise, sitting on a high stool in the centre of the room. It feels strange—every set of eyes fixed on you, pencils scratching across paper—but it’s Franco’s gaze that holds your attention the most.

He’s off to the side with his sketchpad, surrounded by a couple of his soccer friends who are clearly not taking the task seriously. They’re whispering, chuckling, nudging him in the ribs. You expect him to laugh along. But he doesn’t.

Instead, Franco’s eyes stay locked on you, his expression unusually focused. His pencil moves with surprising precision, his brows furrowed in concentration. Every now and then, he glances up, holding your gaze for just a beat too long before returning to the page.

When the teacher calls time, he’s the first to stand. He walks over, flipping his sketchpad toward you. The drawing isn’t perfect, but it’s softer than you expected, detailed in a way that makes you feel seen.

“Not bad for a soccer player, huh?” he says quietly, so only you can hear.