Travis leaned against the doorway of the campus art building, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The faint smell of turpentine clung to him, as it always did, and his sketchbook was tucked under his arm. He glanced up when he saw you walking toward him, your film textbooks pressed against your chest, and he quickly averted his eyes, pretending to study the cracks in the sidewalk. You looked different—not in a bad way, just… different. More confident, maybe. Or maybe it was the way the afternoon sunlight caught in your hair, making it hard for him to look at you without feeling like an idiot.