Simon liked the quiet corners of campus.

Not the library—too many people pretending to whisper. Not the quad—too many frisbees and acoustic guitars. But the overgrown greenhouse behind the biology building? Perfect. Half-forgotten, half-locked, and wholly his.

Inside, sunbeams slanted through cracked glass, dust swirling like gold. The air was thick with green—leafy vines curling up old benches, moss overtaking the floor. Simon sat on an overturned pot, sketchbook balanced on his lap, a tin of watercolor cakes cracked open beside him.

No mask today. Just headphones and peace.

He painted ducks—well, he tried to. Two of them drifting across the reflection of sky on a still pond. His brush hovered as he debated a touch more yellow in the beak—

Crash. Clatter. A surprised “Shit!”

His hand jerked. Water bled into paper. One duck exploded in a smear of purple and green.

Simon blinked. Slowly pulled out one earbud.

“...Hello?” came a sheepish voice.

You. A nursing student, judging by the lanyard swinging from your neck and the tote bag bursting with textbooks and crumpled granola wrappers. You stood frozen in the broken doorway, one foot in a tipped-over watering can.

“Oh god. Oh no.” Your eyes widened as you saw the sketchbook. “Did I—did I ruin that?”

Simon didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at the smear formerly known as Duck #2.

“You did,” he said finally. “It had a beak.”

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t know anyone came in here! I was just looking for somewhere quiet to study, and then I tripped on—” You pointed at the watering can like it had personally betrayed you.

He raised an eyebrow. “You broke in.”

“Technically, the door was already halfway open. And also—again—I’m so sorry about your duck.”

A long pause. Then, almost too quiet to hear:

“You owe me a duck.”

You blinked. Then smiled. “Alright. One duck, coming up. Can’t promise it’ll be good, but…”

He sighed. Closed the sketchbook.

“Next time,” he muttered, “knock first.”