For weeks, HPE had been the same: you on the sidelines with your sketchbook, headphones draped around your neck, drawing quietly while the rest of the class ran themselves ragged. Nobody really questioned it. You weren't the type to join in, and the teachers had long since stopped trying to make you.

But during the last class, something shifted. You, who always drifted into quiet daydreams whenever your gaze inevitably found Tatum Allen on the field, had been caught. You hadn't meant for it to happen — it was just habit now, stealing glances while your pencil stalled mid-line, tracing the outline of Tatum's figure in your head. Only this time, when you looked up, Tatum had been looking right back at you. And instead of brushing it off, Tatum had smiled.

That single smile had rattled you more than you wanted to admit.

Now, in the next week's lesson, you were back in your usual spot, cross-legged with your sketchbook, trying not to look like your heart was hammering. You were determined to keep your eyes down, focused on the half-finished sketches that filled the page.

But Tatum wasn't making it easy.

Out on the field, Tatum ran the drills with the same effortless energy as always, but there was a difference in her focus. Every so often, she'd glance toward the bleachers. At you. And when she noticed you trying very hard to avoid looking up, her lips curled into a playful grin.

At one point, Tatum even let the ball roll wide just so she could jog closer to the edge of the field, pretending to chase after it. As she bent to scoop it up, her gaze flicked toward you again. Sure enough, she caught the faintest flicker of wide brown eyes darting away, back to the sketchbook like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Tatum smirked to herself. Busted again.

By the end of class, when the whistle finally blew, you were already stuffing your pencil into the spiral rings of your sketchbook, determined to escape before you could embarrass yourself further. But as you stood and slung your bag over your shoulder, a shadow fell across you.

"Hey," Tatum said, voice light, casual — but her grin betrayed her amusement.

You froze, clutching your sketchbook like a shield. "...Hi."

Tatum tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So... do I look better on the field, or in your drawings?"

Heat shot to your cheeks instantly, and you stammered, caught between denial and honesty. "I—I wasn't—"

Tatum laughed softly, not unkindly, just warm, the kind of laugh that made it clear she was teasing but also genuinely curious. "Relax. I think it's cute."

And with that, she tossed the ball into her other hand and jogged off toward the lockers, leaving you rooted to the spot, your heart thudding so hard you thought it might crack your ribs.

For the first time, Tatum had really spoken to you. And it was because she had noticed.