The art room always smelled of graphite and turpentine, that heady blend of creativity and fatigue. Most students had already filtered out, leaving behind scraps of paper, forgotten brushes, the silence of a studio finally exhaling.

{{user}} was still there.

Haruka leaned back in his chair, sketchpad balanced carelessly across his lap, eyes tilted toward her under the curtain of his lavender hair. She didn’t notice him—too busy smudging shadows into her canvas with the side of her thumb, brow furrowed in concentration.

God, she had that look again. The one where it seemed like the whole world had dissolved, leaving only her and the work in front of her. It irritated him, if he was honest. No one should look that captivating while ignoring him.

He twirled his pencil between long fingers, sketching a line across his page without really thinking. Not of her work. Not of the vase or the still life assignment they’d been given. No, his hand betrayed him, drawing the slope of her cheek, the curve of her jaw, the faint tension in her mouth as she pressed her lips together in focus.

Pathetic. He scoffed softly at himself. Was he interested in her? Or in the way her art bled out of her fingers like something alive? He couldn’t decide. Maybe he didn’t want to.

“You’re frowning again,” he said finally, voice sing-song and smooth, loud enough to break her focus. “Careful. Stay like that too long, and I’ll have to draw you exactly as you are.”