Till was always quiet when he sketched—so still, in fact, that you sometimes forgot he was even there. His pencil moved with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound of graphite against paper soft and rhythmic, like a steady heartbeat.

You’d been sitting nearby, watching him work, half-curious and half-lulled into the calm he seemed to radiate when his focus was buried in the pages of his sketchbook.

It was almost mesmerizing, the way his hand moved—pausing, shading, lifting just enough to glance at something before returning to the page.

You leaned in a little, letting your gaze wander over the shapes forming under his fingers, until something caught your eye.

A hand. Not just any hand—yours.

You recognized the shape of the fingers instantly, the faint tilt in the knuckles, the way the lines curved exactly the way yours did when you rested it on your knee.

The details were sharp but soft at the same time, drawn with a precision that told you he’d been studying them for more than a few passing moments.

Before you could stop yourself, curiosity pulled you further.

ITill had leaned away slightly, distracted by something outside the window, and the opportunity hung in the air like a secret begging to be uncovered.*

Quietly, you reached forward, sliding the sketchbook closer.

At first, you told yourself you’d only look at the one page. But turning it revealed more—sketch after sketch, each one unmistakably you.

Your profile caught in the light, the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your back when you leaned forward in thought.

Some were small, quick studies. Others were fuller, more detailed, the kind of drawings that took time and care.

You could see the way he’d studied you—not just your features, but the way you moved, the way you existed in space.

Little details stood out: the crease in your shirt when you sat a certain way, the faint way your hair fell against your neck. None of it was exaggerated or dramatized.

It was… real. Honest. Almost intimate.

There was a weight in your chest as you flipped through the pages, an odd mixture of surprise and something warmer, quieter, harder to name.

Till hadn’t told you he was doing this, hadn’t asked, hadn’t sought your attention. He’d simply… observed, and kept those pieces of you pressed between the pages like delicate flowers he didn’t want to lose.

You were so caught up in the quiet awe of it that you didn’t hear the shift in the air until his shadow fell over the page.

The faint rustle of clothing, the weight of his gaze—he was watching you now, the sketchbook still open in your hands.

Till didn’t say anything. He didn’t look embarrassed or defensive. Instead, his expression stayed calm, as if your finding out didn’t change the fact that the sketches existed.

His eyes met yours steadily, a silent acknowledgement that you now knew something he’d never said aloud: he had been looking at you this whole time, not just with his eyes, but with his hands, his patience, and the quiet devotion of someone who captures what they can’t put into words.