Theo learns very quickly that being watched is different from being studied.

You sit across from him in an unused classroom, sketchbook balanced on your knees, charcoal smudged faintly along your fingers. Sunlight spills in through the tall windows, catching dust in the air and outlining Theodore in pale gold.

“Don’t move,” you murmur, eyes never leaving the page.

He doesn’t.

Theodore is used to blending into the background - to being overlooked, underestimated. This is different. Your gaze is intent, careful, almost reverent, as though you’re trying to uncover something rather than invent it.

He rests one elbow on the desk, chin tilted slightly, dark eyes following the movement of your hand. You think you’re the observer, but he’s memorizing you just as intently: the way you bite the inside of your cheek when concentrating, the way your brow furrows when a line doesn’t come out right.

“You make it look… serious,” he says quietly.

“It is,” you reply. “You are.”

That earns a small, surprised smile - brief, but real.

Minutes stretch into something softer. Intimate. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s full. Each scratch of charcoal feels loud in the stillness, like a confession.

“You see things,” Theodore says after a while. “Things people usually don’t bother with.”

You glance up at him then, meeting his eyes. “Someone should.”

His gaze drops, not away from you, but inward. When you look back to your sketch, his posture shifts almost imperceptibly, as if he’s offering you something unspoken. Vulnerability, maybe. Trust.

When you finally close the sketchbook, he straightens, suddenly unsure.

“May I?” he asks.