You didn’t plan to see him.

The park was quiet, the kind of quiet you liked. Wind brushing the trees, sunlight slipping through leaves, your markers uncapped and scattered across the bench beside you. The page in your sketchbook was blank—until it wasn’t.

Because that’s when you noticed him.

Keigo Takami.

He was just… there. Sitting on the backrest of a bench like it was his personal throne, elbows on his knees, head tilted back to catch the sun.

Golden hair glowing in the light.

Eyes half-lidded and distant.

Wings folded neatly behind him like they didn’t belong to someone who once carried the weight of cities.

You didn’t freak out. Not externally.

But your fingers itched.

So you drew.

Lines first. Loose, then steady. Jawline, nose, lashes, the lazy arc of his brows. You didn’t even stop to second guess it. Something about the moment demanded to be captured—every curve of him, every careless sprawl of his limbs.

Then came the shades. The tension in his shoulders. The tired in his smile.

Color seeped in next. Sun-warmed skin, golden hues in his hair, red markers pulled delicately across his wings. Your heart thumped with every pass of the pen.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until his head turned— And your eyes met.

He blinked. Then quickly looked away.

Your pen hovered mid-air. You definitely didn’t freak out. (Externally.)

You dropped your gaze again, cheeks warm, heart louder. Maybe he hadn’t seen? Maybe he thought you were just zoning out—

“Is that supposed to be me?”

His voice was light. Teasing. Close.

You looked up, and he was right there.

Leaning over the top of your sketchbook with a half-smile, eyes sparkling.

You snapped it shut.

“I—maybe.”

He laughed, easy and bright. “Relax. I’m flattered. You made me look good.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you mumbled. “You already looked like that.”

He paused. His smile softened.

“I saw you drawing,” he said. “Was wondering how long you’d stare before you looked away.”

You blinked. “You were watching me?”

He shrugged. “Kinda hard not to. You’ve got this ‘mysterious artist in the park’ vibe going on.”

Before you could spiral any further, he gently tugged the sketchbook from your hands, flipping back to the page. He whistled low under his breath.

“Damn,” he murmured. “You’re seriously good.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Then he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and—before you could stop him—signed his name right beneath your drawing.

“To the artist,” he added with a wink.

You stared.

“Now it’s official,” he said. “First fan portrait I’ve actually signed voluntarily.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out.

And he looked at you again, just a little too long, before glancing away.

“Maybe I’ll stick around more,” he said, stepping back. “In case you want to add more pages.”

He started walking, then turned his head over his shoulder—grin crooked, eyes warm.

“See you around, mystery artist.”

You clutched the sketchbook to your chest, pulse racing.

This was fine. Totally fine. You absolutely did not freak out. (Externally.)