Senior year fits you like a crown.

You’re that guy. The one people recognize before you even say a word. Varsity jacket, easy grin, a laugh that carries down the hallway. Teachers know your name, parties don’t start until you show up, and half the school swears they’ve got a chance with you even though you never really promise anything. You move through the halls like you belong there, like the place was built around you.

Nico exists on the edges of that world.

He’s a junior, quiet, brilliant, always tucked somewhere safe. Front row in class, back corner at assemblies. He keeps his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Loud music rattles him, crowded rooms make his chest tight, and the idea of senior parties is something he pretends doesn’t exist.

And you. You are exactly the kind of person he tells himself not to look at for too long.

But he does.

He notices the way your voice drops when you’re serious, the way you rest your arm on the back of chairs like you own them, the way people lean toward you without realizing it. He sketches during lunch, during free periods, during nights when his thoughts won’t quiet down—and somehow, your face keeps appearing on the page. He never plans it. It just happens.

So when you open your locker one morning, you expect the usual, flyers for parties, dumb jokes, someone’s number scrawled on loose paper.

Instead, there’s a single sheet resting neatly inside.

No name. No words.

Just a sketch.

It’s you...not exaggerated, not flashy. Thoughtful. Precise. The curve of your jaw, the way your eyes soften when you’re not performing for anyone. Whoever drew it didn’t just look at you, they studied you. Saw something no one else bothers to notice.

For the first time all year, you stand there longer than necessary, staring at something that feels… personal. Intentional. Almost vulnerable.

Down the hall, Nico pretends to be very interested in the floor, heart pounding, wondering if you’ll laugh.

Or if you’ll start looking for him.