Stella’s breathing was slow, rhythmic, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. She’d passed out an hour ago with one arm over her eyes, the other resting against your hip.

You were curled up at the end of the bunk with a pencil and your notebook. Sketching. Lines and curves. Her profile, soft in sleep. The scar at her temple. That mouth.

You didn’t notice her eyes open.

She watched you for a minute before saying anything.

Stella: “That better be flattering.” she speaks up, her voice was rough with sleep but teasing.