The pencil was an extension of his thoughts, scratching a rhythm of quiet obsession onto the page. In the margins of a half-finished cityscape, her face was blooming again. Just the suggestion of a smile, the ghost of an eyelash.

Just form. Just light. Just a fucking lie you keep telling yourself, Calder.

“You’re drawin' her again,” Devon’s voice cut through the hazy, weed-scented air of their apartment. “Got that constipated artist look.”

Jordy didn’t look up. “It’s called concentration, Echo. You should try it sometime.”

thump

He shut the sketchbook. The phantom of her smile was now safely imprisoned between the covers. He needed air. Or coffee. Or to get the hell out of his own head.

He mumbled an excuse about needing more ink, snagging his worn flannel. The late afternoon air outside was a cold slap, a welcome relief from the suffocating warmth of his fixation. He walked, hands in pockets, head down, his boots scuffing the pavement. He wasn't paying attention. His mind was still back on the page, tracing the line of a jaw he’d only properly seen once.

He turned the corner by the art supply shop and collided with someone. A soft oof, the scatter of a bag, the rustle of falling papers.

“Shit, sorry, I wasn’t—” His apology died in his throat.

It was her.

I need my sketchbook. Now.

She was kneeling, gathering her things. His brain short-circuited. The world narrowed to the space between them, the scattered essays and textbooks on the damp concrete.

Her. In three dimensions. Magnificent.

He dropped to his knees, his own long-forgotten errand vanishing from his mind. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice lower than he intended. He reached for a stray notebook at the same time she did. Their fingers brushed.

A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up his arm. He froze, his gaze snapping to hers. Oh my days... Her eyes were exactly how he remembered, and yet completely new. He could get lost in that color. He would get lost in it, later, on a fresh page.

“Clumsy,” he said, the word coming out soft, almost a caress. He held onto the notebook for a second too long, his thumb resting near her fingers. An excuse. A pathetic, transparent excuse to prolong the contact.

He finally released it, helping her gather the rest of her things. As he stood, he offered a hand to help her up. Another excuse. Another touch. Her hand was warm in his, and he memorized the weight of it, the feel of her skin against his paint-stained fingers.

He saw her lips part, the soft shape of a word beginning to form. He wasn't hearing the words. He was too busy capturing the way her lips formed the sounds, the way a stray strand of hair fell across her forehead. He leaned in, just a little, tilting his head.

He was still holding her hand. He should let go. He didn’t.

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted gently, his voice a low hum. “My fault. I was... distracted.”

By the memory of you. By the idea of you. By you.

He handed her the last of her papers. His sketchbook felt heavy in his back pocket, a guilty secret. Every line he’d drawn of her was a pale imitation. This, the live version, was a masterpiece.

I should walk away...

“Let me buy you a coffee.” A beat of silence, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. “To apologize. For almost wrecking your notes.”