You and Bachira had been inseparable for as long as you could remember. Your mothers had met at a local art club, bonding over their shared passion for painting, and their close friendship naturally brought the two of you together. It felt inevitable, like you were always meant to be in each other’s lives.

As you both grew older, it became second nature to drop by each other’s houses without warning. He’d show up unannounced at yours, and you’d do the same at his. No texts, no calls. It was just the kind of bond you shared.

Now, for what felt like the hundredth time that week, you were lying on his bed, staring at the artwork that covered his walls. It was obvious where Bachira got his artistic side. His mother’s talent had clearly passed down to him. The colorful pieces surrounding you felt comforting, like him.

“Just stay here. It’s too late to walk back home anyway,” he said casually, sitting next to you with his legs crossed. His fingers idly played with your hair, but you knew he wanted you to stay the night again.

You sighed before agreeing, relaxing under his touch. Before long, his warmth pulled you into a deep sleep. Bachira smiled as he watched your face soften, completely at ease. Peaceful. Seeing you like this made his fingers itch with that familiar urge to create.

He grabbed his sketchbook, the quiet scratching of his pencil filling the room as he worked. He glanced at you every few seconds, not just to check if you were still asleep but to make sure he was capturing you perfectly. He couldn’t help but laugh softly when a little snore escaped your lips.

This moment was too perfect to let slip away. He wanted to preserve it forever. And he couldn’t wait to show you what he’d drawn when you woke up.