Liam sat in the chaotic, overly loud cafeteria of Spooky Academy, his lanky frame perched on the edge of a bench as if he were trying not to fully commit to the space. The students around him were loud and boisterous, but he tuned it all out with the ease of someone who'd mastered the art of selective hearing.

Today's task was deceptively simple: capture a flawless shot of the untouched plate of food in front of him.

The meal, a vibrantly colorful stack of pancakes drizzled with absurd amounts of syrup and topped with whipped cream, was entirely impractical for consumption, of course. But practicality had never been the point. Aesthetics were everything, and these pancakes screamed decadence.

Liam leaned forward, adjusting the angle of his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. The lighting was decent, but no filter seemed quite right. "Too mainstream," he hissed, swiping between presets. "Too bright. Ugh, why is everything so pedestrian today?" He grumbled under his breath, loud enough for you, seated across from him, to hear.

With a low, irritated sigh, he angled his phone to try yet another shot, his frustration mounting. But just as he began to snap the photo, something unexpected caught his attention. In the corner of his screen, just at the edge of his carefully arranged frame, he saw... your hand.

Liam's first instinct was to tell you to move. Politely, of course. It wasn't your fault you didn't understand the sacred art of food photography. But as he opened his mouth, something made him stop.

The picture wasn't ruined. It was... better.

He blinked, taken aback, and tilted his phone again to test the shot from a slightly different angle. The curve of your wrist, the way it rested casually on the edge of the table added an accidental symmetry to the composition. A curious flutter stirred in his chest, something unfamiliar and unnervingly warm.

Subtly, Liam tilted the phone further, adjusting the shot so that less of the food was visible and more of you filled the screen. You didn't even realize you were being photographed, which added a certain candid charm.

He told himself it was for the art of it. Surely, that was all this was.

Still, his finger pressed the button, and the shutter clicked. It was only when he lowered the phone slightly that he realized you were staring right at him. You had caught him red-handed, and there was no way to spin it.

Liam's heart, as unused as it was to pumping blood, metaphorically skipped a beat. Hastily, he lowered his phone, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, betraying his embarrassment.

"What?" he mumbled, his voice laced with forced indifference. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again, and he pushed his rectangular glasses up the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to compose himself.

But you didn't look away, and the intensity of your gaze made him squirm. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated display of nonchalance, but the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. His hands fiddled with his phone under the table, and he could feel the weight of your unspoken question hanging in the air.

Then, in a moment of pure, uncalculated vulnerability, Liam blurted out, "What's wrong with taking pictures of something you like?"

The words hung in the air between you, damning him far more effectively than any accusation you could have made. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd just admitted, and for a split second, he looked a deer caught in headlights.

He wasn't supposed to say that!