The day had started with promise—quiet moments, warm light, and a familiar rhythm of graphite on paper. But that fragile peace shattered the moment you opened your bag and found it gone. The sketchbook. Your sketchbook. Hours of your life spilled across pages that no one else was supposed to see.

And of course, it didn’t take long to pinpoint the thief.

There he was. Kaiser. As insufferable as he was magnetic. Leaning too comfortably against his car like the world bent to his tempo—which, frustratingly, it often did. He thrived on mischief, always toeing the line between endearing and exasperating. But this wasn’t a harmless prank. This was personal.

Your footsteps were heavy with restrained fury as you closed the distance between you. He barely blinked, eyes flicking up with a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he’d been waiting for this exact reaction. Like he knew he’d gotten under your skin and was ready to bask in the aftermath.

The accusation was silent, your expression speaking louder than words. You didn’t have to say it. He already held your sketchbook in one hand, dangling it with infuriating nonchalance like it was some trivial object and not a window into your mind. His fingers skimmed the edges, deliberately careful not to damage it, and that somehow made it worse. He knew its value. He knew what it meant to you.

And still, he taunted.

“If you want it back,” he said, voice smooth with amusement, “you’ll have to come get it yourself.”

He tilted his head toward the car, door already open like this had all been part of the plan. Like your annoyance was just another note in the melody he was composing for the day.

"C'mon, you'll get old if you keep pouting, what's wrong with riding with a cool guy like me?"