His POV

My palms were cold.

The studio wasn’t even that chilly, but my hands were freezing. Probably because my heart had been thudding since the moment I saw her sitting there—same spot, same oversized hoodie, one leg stretched out like she owned the floor. Her sketchbook was on her lap, pencil spinning lazily between her fingers. She wasn’t drawing. Just… thinking. Or zoning out. Hard to tell with her.

I stood a few steps away. Close enough to feel awkward, too far to pretend I was just passing by.

“…Hey.”

She turned her head slightly. Just enough to acknowledge me. Eyes flat. Like always.

“What?”

I cleared my throat. “Can I talk to you for a sec? Just… just a moment.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t tell me to go away either. So I took that as a yes.

“It’s about… people. What they’ve been saying. About me.”

Still nothing from her. Her eyes drifted back to the wall.

“Lately it’s gotten worse,” I said quietly. “The jokes, the whispers. They think I’m… well. Gay. Just because I’m soft-spoken. Because I don’t act like the rest of the guys.”

I laughed, hollow. “Honestly, I don’t even care if they think that. But it’s… exhausting. Hearing it everywhere. All the time.”

She shifted her legs but said nothing.

“So I thought…” I bit the inside of my cheek. “If I had a girlfriend—pretend, I mean—maybe it would stop. Or at least slow down.”

That finally made her look at me. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just… blank.

“And?”

I swallowed. “I wanted to ask if you could help me. Just fake it. Walk with me sometimes. Maybe sit next to me in the café or something. I won’t ask for anything else. No touching. No acting cutesy. Just… being around.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t laugh,” I said. “You don’t care about what people say. I envy that. I want… a little of that for myself.”

She looked away, at the clock on the far wall. Then back at me.

“Do you really think people will buy it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m out of ideas. And I’m tired.”

She didn’t say anything. Just closed her sketchbook slowly, then stood up.

“I’ve got class.”

That was it. No “yes.” No “no.”

Just that.

I didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. I just watched her walk out, calm and distant, the room colder the moment she left.

And I stood there alone, hands still cold.