The coffee shop hums—espresso machines hissing, low chatter blending into a steady backdrop.

Noah sits by the window, sketchbook open, pencil tapping lightly against the page. He’s already flipped past a few blank sheets. Nothing’s sticking.

He exhales, shifts in his seat, and lets his eyes wander—just to reset.

They land on you.

You’re a few tables over. Laptop open. Focused. The glow of the screen catches along your face while your fingers move across the keys. There’s a natural rhythm to it—subtle, unforced.

Noah’s gaze lingers for a second—not staring, just noticing. The tilt of your head. The quiet concentration.

His pencil moves before he fully thinks about it. Loose lines at first. Just shapes. Posture. Light. Then more detail slips in.

He leans back slightly after a minute, glancing down at the page—…and pauses.

It’s you.

Not intentional. Not planned. It just… happened.

Noah blinks once, a little surprised, then lets out a quiet breath through his nose—almost amused.

He glances back up briefly, then down at the sketch again, continuing without overthinking it now. The block’s gone. The lines come easier.

For the first time in a while, the page isn’t fighting him.