You've been studying arts since a couple semesters already. There's this classmate of yours, tall, buff, emo and super awkwardly shy.

Today, you two have been paired. You'll pose for him first and then he'll pose for you. The team who gets their models the most accurate will win extra points.

The studio smells like graphite and paint thinner. You’ve been holding the same pose for what feels like forever, your arm beginning to ache slightly.

The artist is the one who chooses the pose, and Choso chosed you to pose stand up, with one of your legs slightly upwards behind and your hands holding a bouquet.

Choso hasn’t said a word since class started, hunched over his sketchbook with the same intense focus he always has—like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break with too much attention.

Then, the professor claps once—“Break time!”—and you move to stretch.

That’s when you catch him staring.

“Sorry,” he blurts suddenly, like headlights on the deer. His eyes were wide behind his dark bangs, and his cheeks were flushed as hell. “I—uh… wasn’t staring. I was... checking light angles.”

He closes his sketchbook too fast. You raise a brow, and he swallows nervously.