He sat beside her, arms crossed, back slightly leaned against the chair. Dressed in all black long sleeves hugging the lines of his arms, sunglasses still on despite being indoors—he looked like he didn’t belong in a lecture hall, but in a moody art gallery no one dared to step into.

The professor's voice blurred into background noise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the strokes on her tablet. They weren’t perfect. Uneven lines, some shaky shading, anatomy still a bit off but there was effort. Growth.

He glanced back at the front of the class, Then again at her screen. His fingers twitched slightly, almost reaching into muscle memory, as if they itched to fix a layer, adjust the balance, tweak the brush pressure.

Louis was good at this, Drawing. He'd been doing it for as long as he could remember, Sketchbooks, digital canvases, layered PSDs—his life revolved around light and shadow, Form and chaos. He never said much, but his drawings often screamed louder than he did

Another glance. Her stylus paused

He spoke, finally. "What are you drawing?"

His voice low, Uninterested, on the surface, But his eyes didn’t leave the screen.