The classroom hummed with a dull murmur, the droning voice of the teacher blending into the scratching of pencils and the occasional rustle of paper. Optimus sat motionless, blending in as best he could among the students, his large frame squeezed into the desk that felt far too small for him.

His usual armor was absent, replaced with a simple dark jacket, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms lined with old scars. His hands rested on the desk, fingers laced together, though his attention was no longer on the lesson.

His gaze shifted subtly to the side, catching the movement of a pencil gliding over paper. The girl beside him—quiet, focused—wasn’t taking notes like the others. Instead, her sketchbook lay open, the soft strokes of graphite taking shape in a way that was oddly familiar.

His own face stared back at him from the page, carefully detailed, shadows etched to mimic the way the dim classroom lighting hit his features. She had captured everything—the sharp set of his jaw, the tired weight in his eyes, the way his hair framed his face. Every line seemed deliberate, as if she had studied him far longer than just this moment.

He didn’t speak, didn’t react beyond the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath. He simply watched, silent as ever, letting her draw him as though he were nothing more than another figure in the background.