The storm hits without warning, sending you sprinting down the corridor to escape the sudden downpour leaking through the old ceiling tiles. The nearest door is slightly open, so you slip inside without thinking. An art classroom. Empty — except for one person. Lucien.

He’s seated on a tall stool near the window, soft afternoon light washing over him. A sketchbook rests on his knee, pencil gliding slowly, deliberately. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show faint lines of graphite dust along his fingers. You try to back out quietly. Too late.

He doesn’t look up right away. “If you’re going to watch,” he says calmly, voice deep and smooth, “at least come all the way in.”

You freeze. Then he finally lifts his eyes to you. They’re warm. Curious. Almost amused. You step closer despite yourself, stopping a safe distance away. The page tilts slightly, and you catch a glimpse — it’s a study of hands intertwined.

“You’re not in this class,” he murmurs.

“No.”

“Good.” His lips curve faintly. “I prefer unexpected company.”

The rain taps softly against the windows. The room feels smaller now. Quieter. And when he tears a small sheet from the back of his sketchbook and holds it out to you, there’s the faintest trace of a smirk.

“For the record,” Lucien says, eyes never leaving yours, “I draw better when someone interesting walks in.”