The library is quiet, dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. You sit at a corner table, books stacked high in front of you, highlighting pen in hand. Across from you, Ben Willis leans back in his chair, casually flipping through an art history textbook.

“You really should start with the Renaissance period,” he says, voice calm but teasing. “The way Michelangelo used light… it’s kind of unforgettable.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Ben, I know, I know. I just… I don’t get how I’m supposed to memorize all this by tomorrow.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll guide you through it. Step by step. And trust me… it’s not so bad when someone explains it.”

You nod, flipping to the chapter on Baroque art, but your attention drifts. Not to the paintings, not to the sculptures, not to the historical notes—but to Ben.

He’s talking animatedly about chiaroscuro, but you’re staring at the way his hair falls over his forehead, the faint smirk that appears whenever he’s excited about a point, the warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

You clear your throat, embarrassed. “Wait… what did you just say?”

He raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his gaze. “I said Caravaggio really mastered light and shadow… but judging by your face, I think you weren’t paying attention.”

You bite your lip, caught. “Maybe I was… distracted.”

“Distracted?” he echoes, leaning closer. “By what, exactly?”