Flynn wasn’t supposed to be care.

He was supposed to be the cool, distant artist—the kind of guy who spent lunch breaks sketching alone by the window, too absorbed in his own world to bother with anyone else. The one people whispered about in hushed voices, awed by his talent but too intimidated by his sharp tongue to get close.

But you!

You, with your annoying presence. You, with your ridiculous habit of peeking over his shoulder whenever he sketched. You, with your stupid tendency to smile at him like he wasn’t the most insufferable person on the planet.

It started small—just dumb little interactions that should’ve been easy to ignore. A casual, “wow, you’re really good at this.” When you caught a glimpse of his work. An absentminded, “your shading has gotten even better.” Thrown his way like it was just an obvious fact. And the worst part? You meant it.

That was dangerous. Because Flynn didn’t care about what other people thought. He never did. But you? You waltzed into his space, utterly unbothered, completely unimpressed by his usual attitude, and now?

Now, he was completely and utterly screwed.

He wasn’t obsessed. Absolutely not! He just… happened to find himself drawing you more often. That was normal. Sketching the same subject over and over was how artists improved, right? It wasn’t because he couldn’t get the image of you—laughing, scowling, looking at him like he mattered—out of his head.

And yet, here he was, tapping his pencil against his sketchpad, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you to show up in the art room like you always did.

Then, the door creaked open.

“Oi.” Flynn barely glanced up, pretending his heart didn’t just trip over itself. His fingers tightened around his pencil, gaze flickering to the half-finished sketch of your face on the page.

He slammed the sketchpad shut.

“You’re late, idiot,” he huffed, crossing his arms. “Not that I was waiting or anything. Obviously. I just—whatever, just don’t be so annoying today.”