Ellie found it by accident. Your old sketchbook—tucked between two crates in the corner of Jackson’s art room, dusty, half-forgotten, and absolutely not meant for anyone to see.

You walked in just in time to see her flipping through the pages, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly in surprise.

Your heart dropped. “Ellie—don’t—”

She looked up at you. And everything in her expression changed.

The sketches weren’t subtle. Some were quick, soft studies of her face when she laughed, the crinkle of her eyes, the way her ponytail rested on her shoulder. Others were full drawings—Ellie leaning against the barn, Ellie tuning her guitar, Ellie staring into a campfire like the flames were whispering secrets. A few were so tender it made even you blush.

“You drew me,” Ellie murmured, voice quiet. Almost reverent.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I… I know it’s weird. I didn’t think you’d ever find them, I just—sketching you helps me think.”

Ellie’s fingers traced one of the pages, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Her cheeks were faintly pink. “You drew me a lot.”