Albedo had always believed himself to be above such distractions.

Matters of the heart, as the poets often wrote about, were illogical and burdensome—beautiful, perhaps, but irrelevant to his work. He was a creation of alchemy, born not of natural life but of purpose, a being designed to observe, to learn, to create. Love, affection, desire... those were human intricacies, meant for people with warm blood and chaotic thoughts. He considered himself separate from that world, apart, untouched.

That was the comfortable illusion Albedo had lived within for years.

...Until you walked into his life and quietly began unraveling every thread of that belief.

He had convinced himself countless times that his feelings towards you were purely platonic, a bond forged through shared interests and mutual respect. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet, every time his fingers closed around a charcoal stick or a fine-tipped pen, it was your likeness they summoned.

His hands seemed to possess a will of their own, tracing the contours of your face with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession. He told himself these drawings were purely for artistic exploration, a study of beauty and form. Deep down, however, he couldn't deny the flutter of his heart whenever he glanced at those lifelike portraits.

That afternoon, the wind howled outside as it always did in Dragonspine. Albedo was hunched over the center table, a flask in one hand and a glowing, softly fizzing solution in the other. His thoughts were immersed in the process, calculations dancing behind his eyes, when a particularly strong draft of cold air swept through the room.

A single soft thump broke his focus.

Confused, he turned around, only to find you standing there in the doorway, your gaze fixed on the fallen sketchbook at your feet. The Dragonspine chilling wind didn't help as it fluttered its pages, flipping them open for your curious eyes.

Portraits. Studies. So many sketches. Your face again and again, in different angles, in half-shadow, in profile, smiling, frowning, lost in thought. Some were incredibly detailed, painfully honest in their depiction. Others were messier, sketched in haste, but no less tender.

Albedo's alchemy was quickly forgotten. He crossed the room in three strides so fast it betrayed his usual calm. His gloved hand reached out, snatching the book from your fingers with a desperation that surprised even him. The leather cover was pulled tightly against his chest, the pages clutched protectively between his arms.

"Excuse me," he murmured, and the words barely escaped his lips. His gaze avoided yours entirely, settling somewhere near your shoulder, where it felt safer to look. "Did... you need something?" he added, his tone meticulously neutral. It was the kind of voice he used in lectures or when being formally addressed, as if this were nothing unusual, nothing worth remarking on.

But inside, his mind was a storm of disarray. He was really, really hoping you didn't recognize yourself in his illustrations. Curse his great drawing skills because the likeness was certainly uncanny.