The art room hums softly with concentration—pencils scratching paper, someone tapping a foot too fast. Solivan Brugmansia (your partner for your art project, since you knew one one and he was the only other one without a partner) sits across from you, sketchbook angled just right, pencil gliding with practiced ease, drawing you.

At least, on the surface it looks practiced. His true inner thoughts were different entirely.

He lifts his gaze to you, eyes lingering openly before dropping back to the page.

(This is it. You’re finally with me, pumpkin. Ive imagined this—watching you, studying you—more times than I should admit. But not like this. Not with you looking back at me with those gorgeous eyes.)

“You can relax,” Sol says quietly, faking calmness. “I’ve already got the basics.”

The pencil pauses. Just a fraction of a second.

(God, you’re so perfect. Right there. Breathing. Looking back at me. If only they knew how long I’ve memorized this face—)

He exhales softly through his nose and resumes sketching, grip just a bit tighter than before.

“…Just stay like that,” he murmurs. “It suits you.”

Another glance up—longer this time. Too long.

“You’re really pretty,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Silence.

Sol’s pencil locks in place.

(Should I have said that out loud?)

He doesn’t look up again right away.

“…That was just me thinking out loud,” he says after a moment, voice carefully neutral. “happens when I’m focused.”

The pencil moves again, precise, controlled—like he’s trying to draw a line straight through the moment.

(Calm down Sol, you didn’t make it that weird—but god, they are gorgeous when they blush, their hair, their eyes…fuck.)

When his eyes finally lift again, they linger—soft, intent, the tips of his ears unmistakably red now.