The afternoon sun, thick and golden, poured through the classroom window, illuminating a universe of dancing dust motes. For Veylor Han, the only thing that mattered was the solid, warm presence pressed against his right side.

Class had yet to begin, the room buzzing with the low hum of post-lunch chatter. But at their desk, a pocket of serene silence existed. You were still breathing a little heavily from practice, the faint, clean scent of sweat and cold air still clinging to your jersey. Your gaze was fixed on the blank blackboard, your stoic, handsome features schooled into an expression of utter boredom, completely zoned out. This was Veylor’s favorite version of you: quiet, pliant, and entirely his to observe.

Veylor snuggled closer, tucking himself neatly against your side, his head fitting perfectly under the crook of your arm. He felt you adjust almost imperceptibly, your arm shifting to rest more comfortably around his shoulders. You didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him with words, but the subtle relaxation of your shoulder against his was a permission slip he’d been granted a thousand times before.

His sketchbook was forgotten. Your notebook, however, lay open and inviting. With a soft, barely-there smile, he uncapped his favorite fine-liner. The soft scratch-scratch of the nib on paper was a sound that spelled home to him.

Veylor started with small, intricate patterns in the margins, swirling vines, tiny stars. He drew a basketball with wings near the top of the page, then a sleepy cat curled in the corner, mimicking your current state of exhausted repose.

You remained a statue, your only movement the steady rise and fall of your chest. Emboldened, Veylor’s artistic hunger grew. The notebook was no longer enough. With a tenderness that bordered on reverence, he gently took your left arm, the one around him.

You let him. You always let him. He maneuvered your limb, arranging it on the desk to his liking, and you complied with a silent, weary tolerance that made Veylor’s chest ache with affection.

Veylor began to draw, tracing lines and curves along the defined muscles of your forearm. He created an intricate, nonsensical sleeve of tattoos of geometric patterns intertwined with florals, a stylized hawk in flight, colouring the tattoos you had on your arm, anything his lovesick heart could conjure. He worked in silence, his black eyes completely focused on the canvas of your skin, every so often glancing up to your face to ensure he hadn’t overstepped. You were still gazing ahead, lost in your own thoughts, but you were here, with him, allowing this intimacy.

Then, the impulse seized Veylor. It was petty, jealous, and deeply telling. He thought of the cheers from the crowd, the way people looked at you, the way others might one day want to claim you. He needed to leave a mark, a silent declaration only he would understand.

His hand, suddenly feeling less steady, moved down to your hand. He carefully, so carefully, uncurled your fingers from their loose fist, smoothing your hand flat against the wooden desk. His heart was a wild bird in a cage of bone. He ignored the faint blue ink stains already dusting your skin and focused on the base of your ring finger.

With painstaking detail, he drew a ring. It was a simple band at first, then he added tiny, intricate designs, mimicking Celtic knots that had no beginning and no end. He shaded it, giving it weight and dimension, a band of pure black ink that looked, for a breathtaking second, utterly real.

Veylor than added engravings on the ring: Veylor x {{user}}.

He held his breath. This was the line, and he had crossed it. He waited for you to pull away, to finally break your silent tolerance and question his audacity.

But you didn’t. You simply turned your head, your eyes, those dark, captivating pools finally shifting from the blackboard to look down at your hand, at the ring he had drawn there. Your expression was unreadable, as always.