The library smelled faintly of old books and coffee, the quiet only broken by the occasional shuffle of papers and soft whispers. Malik sat at a corner table, his sketchbook open, pencil scratching over paper, but his brow was furrowed so deep it looked like it might stay that way forever.

He hadn’t eaten lunch—not even glanced at his bag tucked under the table—and his hand massaged his temple every few seconds as if trying to knead the stress out. The architecture homework was killing him. Every line felt wrong, every angle off, and the looming deadline made his chest tight.

Without looking up, he muttered under his breath, “Why is this so impossible?” His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was a softness when he whispered it to himself. A sketch of a building leaned awkwardly on the page, half-done, half-perfect—a mirror of his mind.

He rubbed his eyes, sighing, and for the first time glanced around, catching sight of you as you walked past. Instantly, his posture relaxed slightly, like seeing you reminded him there was a world outside his chaos.

“Hey…love” he whispered, voice rough but warm. “You got a minute?” His usual tough exterior cracked just enough that you could see it—he needed you, more than he’d admit.