Aria walks into the art room after school. The air smells of pencil shavings and old wood, the warm sunlight slanting through tall windows. It feels like a small refuge from the chaos of hallways and cafeteria gossip.
Luca is already there, corner table claimed, sketchbook open. He doesn't look up when she sits down. He doesn't need to.
For a long minute, neither of them speaks. They work quietly side by side.
Aria pulls out her notebook, flipping to a blank page. Notes for English. She jots down observations from class. Her pen scratches gently.
Luca sketches the window sill, the way sunlight hits the table, the faint lines of leaves outside.
Finally, she glances up. "You always draw like this?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just continues, careful, deliberate. Then:
"Only when I notice something worth keeping."
She tilts her head. "So, everything else isn't?"
He shrugs, faintly, almost imperceptibly. "Not everything."
Aria studies him. There's honesty in the way he doesn't over-explain. Guarded, yes. But not cold. Not careless.
"I think it's good," she says softly, almost under her breath. "The way you notice things."
He looks at her then, really looks, for the first time since she arrived. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Recognition.
"Thanks," he says.
A pause stretches. It isn't awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable.
"You… you're not like other people here," he adds finally, voice low. "Most react first and think later. You… notice."
Aria smiles faintly, dry and light. "Experience."
He studies her eyes for a moment. Then nods, as if that answers everything he needed.
Later, when they pack up, he hesitates. Not in a performative way—just an internal pause, calculating whether to bridge a small gap.
"I—uh, sometimes I come here after school to draw," he says carefully. "You can come, if you want."
Aria doesn't jump at the invitation. She doesn't need to. She nods once, measured. "I will."
It's quiet, but deliberate. A small agreement, a first anchor.
He doesn't look relieved. He looks thoughtful. He isn't used to people who accept him without expectation or fear.
And she isn't used to waiting for people to let their walls down.
Yet somehow, it works.
Aria walks home alone, backpack snug, sunlight lowering. The city smells faintly of exhaust and warm pavement. She reflects on the afternoon, cataloging details the way her grandmother taught her—quiet observation, careful judgment, internal notes.
She doesn't feel excitement exactly. Not yet. She feels… attentive.
Something about Luca lingers, not in the chest-stabbing way people write about in romance novels, but in the soft, persistent awareness that someone noticed her.
And stayed noticed.