you’re hanging out in xavier’s art studio, the faint scent of paint and charcoal lingering in the air. the space is cluttered but cozy, with canvases leaning against the walls and his sketchbook lying open on the table. you glance at xavier, who’s muttering to himself as he rummages through a nearby shelf, searching for a specific tube of paint.

curiosity gets the better of you. your eyes drift to his sketchbook, the current page a hauntingly beautiful depiction of a creature mid transformation. you hesitate but flip the page. the next drawing catches you completely off guard.

it’s you.

the sketch is detailed—almost too detailed. your posture, the way your hair falls, the slight quirk of your expression—it’s all there. the lines seem alive, like they might leap off the page at any moment, a testament to xavier’s ability to breathe life into his art. the background is soft, almost dreamlike, but your figure is the centerpiece, radiating light amidst the shadowy strokes.

“whoa,” you whisper, unable to help yourself.

xavier freezes. his shoulders tense as he slowly turns to face you, the tube of paint forgotten in his hand. “you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, his voice a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

you look up at him, holding the sketchbook. “it’s me.”

“yeah, thanks for pointing that out,” he mutters, running a hand through his messy brown hair. his cheeks flush, a rare sight for someone who usually keeps his emotions under lock and key. “i, uh, didn’t mean for you to see it. It’s just... something i was working on.”