Mornings always feel heavier after long sketching nights. I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I make my way toward campus, my tote bag slung over my shoulder, stuffed with art supplies, sketchbooks, and a half-finished commission I plan to work on between classes. My fingers are still sore because yesterday I finished three—and a half—commissions.
The sky above is a perfect washed-out blue, and a soft breeze tugs at the loose strands of my hair. I should feel more awake. Instead, I'm moving on autopilot, dodging students rushing by with earbuds in.
I'm halfway across the quad when I see that tall figure with neat outfit. Man in a suit is always enticing to see ... for me, at least.
Theo is leaning against a stone bench near the fine arts building, his dark hair tousled just slightly by the wind, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his black jacket. He doesn't seem hurried or distracted like everyone else. He's still. Watching. Me.
For a moment, I think he must be waiting for someone. He looks so cool standing there, steadily. But then his gaze lifts and finds mine. Instantly. Like he's been looking for me all along. Or maybe it's only my assumption.
He doesn't smile, not really—just the slow, subtle curve of his lips. Barely a smile.
It's not bright or wide. Like it's meant for me alone.
I swear, for one ridiculous second, I forget how to walk. But I manage to pull myself together and head toward him, pretending that my heart isn't kicking itself against my chest.
"Morning," I say, adjusting the strap of my tote bag higher on my shoulder. A gesture of nervousness, and I know he knows.
Theo pushes off the bench with an easy movement and gets in front of me. "Morning," he echoes, voice low and rough in a way that makes my stomach tighten. Like he hasn't spoken to anyone yet today, like he saved the first word for me. Am I getting the NPD?
"Didn't know you hang around fine arts," I tease, glancing up at him. His profile is sharp, thoughtful, the kind of face you could spend hours sketching and still not capture fully. Like a puzzle I can't really solve.
He shrugs one shoulder. "Sometimes I do."
That's it. No further explanation. No offering of more. Leave me hanging with curiosity. Typical Theo—giving just enough to keep me wondering. I don't even know him well, but I already sense that it's just his true nature.
"You stalking me?" I tease again, half-joking, half-serious. Hold myself to expect a direct answer.
He lifts one eyebrow slowly. "Maybe."
Right, see? I really shouldn't expect a constant and direct answer from him. He's the enigma himself. It should be unsettling. Maybe it is unsettling. But the way he says it so casually makes it doesn't feel threatening.
We start walking side by side. I'm about to go into my building, while he's following me—I guess. This isn't feel awkward, but whenever I'm around him, suddenly I get nervous. But it doesn't mean I'm uncomfortable.
"So," he says after a moment, voice softer now, "what are you working on?"
I blink twice. "Huh?"
He gives me a sideways glance, a faint smirk playing at his lips. Oh, his smirk is ... kinda ... attractive. "Yesterday. You said you had commissions."
"Oh. Yeah." I nod. "Just some small projects. A couple of fantasy character designs, a logo, and emotes. Stuff like that."
Theo hums thoughtfully. "Sounds like you're good at it."
I let out a small laugh. "Hope so. It's how I pay rent."
He stops walking for a second, turning slightly to face me. The movement is so fluid it makes my breath catch. "You're good," he says, voice low but sure.
That words again. He said that before when we first talked last Friday noon. I don't know why his words land so heavily in my chest. Maybe because so few people ever say it so directly. Maybe because it's him.
"Thanks," I say, my voice is quieter than I mean it to be.
We reach the steps leading up to the fine arts building. Other students flow around us, their lives loud and busy. For a moment, it feels like Theo and I are standing still while the rest of the world blurs past.
He leans in slightly, dropping his voice even lower. "Are you busy later?"
The question makes something in me jolt.
"Maybe," I say, managing a small smile. "Depends. I was gonna work on commissions."
Theo watches me for a bit longer than necessary. His gaze is steady, searching. Like he can see right through me, past all my deflections and walls.
"I wanna see what you're working on," he says simply.
No teasing. No flirtation. Just a quiet, grounding kind of interest. Is he that interested in my art?
Not sure what to say, I just chuckle. "Most people just ask for a finished picture," I say, "also, they think it's not interesting to watch."
"They're missing the best part," he murmurs.
Theo doesn't wait for a response. He walks off, gives me one last slow look—the kind that makes my face warm and my hands itch to draw him right there—and then turns, heading off across the quad toward another building.
I stand there longer than I probably should, blinking against the sudden gust of wind that sends papers flying from some poor student's open folder.
He wants to see my art. Nobody ever asks like that. Nobody ever looks at me like that. Nobody ever cares about my art—nor about the process behind it.
There's something about Theo that both draws me in and scares me a little. Like standing too close to a fire. Beautiful, mesmerizing, but if you lean in too far, you know you'll get burned.
I shake myself out of it and hurry into the building, the familiar smell of paint, dust, and old books washing over me like a wave. Still, as I head to my first class, I can't shake the lingering sense of something shifting, something beginning, just under the surface of my everyday life.
Something I might not be ready for. But maybe—just maybe—something I desperately, recklessly, want.