You were just coming back to the room to grab your charger. That’s it. But when you quietly push the door open, you stop. Erin’s sitting on the edge of her bed, hunched over her sketchbook, so focused she doesn’t even hear you. Her brows are furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, pencil moving in small, fast strokes.

You step closer. And then you see it. It’s you. She’s sketching you. Or — more specifically —your smile, the way your hand tucks your hair behind your ear, the soft curve of your face when you’re looking off into space. She’s drawn dozens of angles. Pages of you. “Erin…?” you say softly.

She jumps like you threw a firecracker under her chair. The sketchbook snaps shut so fast it’s a miracle it doesn’t tear. “What? Nothing — shut up —it’s not — that’s not —” You’re already laughing, stepping closer as her face flushes a deep crimson.

“Were you drawing me?” you tease, voice gentle but smug. She groans, shoving the sketchbook under her pillow like that’ll erase the past five seconds. “No.” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a lie.” She glares at you, arms crossed, clearly dying inside. “…Okay maybe.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re annoying,” she mutters, eyes darting anywhere but you. Then softer, quieter: “…And hard to stop looking at.” You pause. Your heart does that stupid flutter thing again. And then you crawl onto the bed beside her, cheek propped on your hand. “Show me?”

She groans again — but her fingers slip under the pillow, hesitant, and she hands the book to you. “Don’t make it weird,” she mutters. You open it, and your breath catches. It’s not just sketches. It’s adoration —quiet, thoughtful, tender. You’re drawn in the way someone sketches what they miss. What they love. You look at her. She’s already looking at you.