The garden behind the Academy shimmered with late-afternoon light, the golden glow catching on the edges of dew-kissed leaves and weaving through the air like strands of warmth. Angel found her way to one of the quieter corners, a secluded bench nestled beneath a flowering tree heavy with blush-pink blossoms. It was peaceful here, away from the noise of the dining hall and the lurking danger of discovery.

 She sighed softly as she sat, the hush of petals above her like a canopy of comfort.

 The scent of roses lingered in the breeze, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. Here, the world didn’t feel so sharp. It didn’t press in from all sides.

 It simply… breathed.

 Angel pulled out her sketchpad, flipping it open to a blank page. Her pencil hovered for a second, then began to glide across the paper. Soft strokes. Rough outlines. She wasn’t thinking about what to draw, her hand just moved, guided by the instinct to create something that didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry into secrets she couldn't afford to tell.

 She let her eyes wander across the garden, seeking something to anchor the sketch.

 That’s when she saw him.

 A figure half-draped in sunlight, half-cloaked in shadow, leaning against a stone pillar at the edge of the path.

 The vampire.

 He was the very picture of unbothered elegance. His frame tall and lean, dressed in dark layers that contrasted starkly with his porcelain-pale skin. The way he stood, casual but poised, was like watching a sculpture come to life. Tousled white hair fell into his eyes in just the right way, and those eyes,

 Crimson.

 Rich, deep red that flickered even in the daylight.

 Angel froze. Their gazes met for the briefest of moments, and her heart lurched. She looked away quickly, eyes dropping to her sketchpad, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring.

 Too late. Her pencil had already started forming the shape of his face.

 She tried not to think about it. She should’ve started a tree or the fountain or anything else, but her hand kept moving on its own, capturing the sharp lines of his jaw, the faint curve of a smirk he hadn’t even given, yet.

 There was something magnetic about him. Dangerous, maybe. But not in a way that made her want to flee.

 It made her want to understand.

 ---

 Vampire’s POV

 From his spot at the edge of the path, the vampire watched her with subtle curiosity.

 He knew who she was, Angel, the quiet one. The girl who never fully fit into any group, who walked the halls like she didn’t belong, even when cloaked in magic.

 And yet… she watched everything.

 With eyes too sharp to be ignored.

 He had seen her before, tucked into library corners, blending into spellcraft classes, her scent muted by layered spells. Her presence was quiet, but her energy, her focus, was unlike any witch he knew.

 She was drawing him now.

 The corner of his lips tugged upward.

 Interesting.

 ---

 Back to Angel

 Angel looked up again, cautious, half-expecting him to be gone.

 He wasn’t.

 In fact… he was closer now.

 Her breath caught in her throat.

 He stood just a few steps away, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, the late sun brushing across his features like light across glass. His eyes were locked on her, steadily, curiously, but not unkindly.

 She clutched the sketchpad against her chest instinctively.

 'Oh no. He saw. Of course he saw.'

 He tilted his head slightly, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

 “I didn’t know I made such a good subject for an artist,” he said, his voice low and smooth. It curled around her like silk.

 Angel blinked, her cheeks warming instantly. “I—I didn’t mean to stare. Or draw. I mean, I was drawing, obviously, but not—uh—not in a creepy way…”

 He chuckled, quiet and amused, like he found her flustered explanation more charming than odd.

 “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “You have an interesting perspective. Most people look at us and see danger.”

 Angel swallowed.

 “I see a lot of things,” she said before she could stop herself.

 He raised a brow at that, intrigued. “Do you?”

 A beat of silence stretched between them.

 Then he extended a hand, fingers pale and graceful.

 “I’m Alaric.”

 Angel hesitated… then reached out slowly and shook his hand. His skin was cool—not cold, but undeniably not warm either. Like something carved from midnight and moonlight.

 “Angel,” she replied.

 “I know,” he said, smiling again. “You’re hard to miss.”

 Her heart fluttered at the comment, unsure if it was meant to be teasing or sincere. Maybe both.

 They stood there for a moment longer, two shadows beneath the blooming tree, and for once, the silence didn’t feel empty.

 It felt like the beginning of something quietly dangerous.

 And possibly beautiful.

 Angel’s pulse skipped like a frantic drumbeat as embarrassment rushed up her neck and burned across her cheeks. She clutched her sketchpad with trembling fingers, the unfinished portrait inside suddenly feeling like a dangerous secret instead of a harmless drawing.

 She quickly snapped the pad shut and stood, fumbling with the strap of her bag.

 “I—I’m sorry!” she stammered, eyes wide, voice laced with panic. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll just… be on my way—”

 But before her feet could carry her off the garden path, his voice, cool, calm, and touched with amusement, cut gently through the air.

 “No need to rush off,” he said. “It’s just a drawing. Besides…” A faint smirk curved at the corner of his lips. “You’re not the first person to take an interest in me. Though, not many do it so… honestly.”

 Angel froze. Slowly, hesitantly, she glanced back.

 Alaric was still there, unmoving but alert, like a statue that had decided to breathe. The dimple on his cheek deepened slightly as he smiled, but there was something in his gaze that made her hesitate. It wasn’t malice.

 It was curiosity.

 As if she’d just done something truly unexpected… and he didn’t quite know how to respond.

 He took a step forward, his presence calm but commanding, like the quiet moment just before dusk.

 “You’re… human, aren’t you?” he said softly, his head tilting as his red eyes gleamed faintly in the sunlight. “I can’t say I’ve met many of your kind here. What brings you to this odd school of ours?”

 Angel’s heart nearly stopped.

 She forced a shaky smile and tried to cover her nerves with clumsy bravado.

 “Hu-human?” she laughed, poorly. “Psh! I’m a witch. See?”

 She yanked her spellbook from her bag and held it up like a badge. Then she whipped out her wand, too fast, sending the polished wood flashing in the light.

 But in her rush, her grip on the sketchpad faltered.

 It slipped from her arm and tumbled to the ground.

 Thud.

 The cover flopped open on impact.

 Angel’s blood ran cold.

 Right there, staring up from the page, was the drawing. Him. Alaric. His face, angled in thought, half-smiling, eyes distant yet alive. Even unfinished, the lines danced with strange clarity. It was too good. Too recognizable.

 There was no hiding it now.

 He moved before she could.

 Alaric knelt smoothly, like gravity was optional, and picked up the sketchpad. His fingers barely grazed the page, but something about the way he held it, gentle, like handling a living thing, made Angel's breath hitch.

 He looked at the drawing, silent at first.

 Then:

 “A witch, huh?” His tone was still light, but something shifted beneath it, something harder to place. “Interesting…”

 He held the sketchpad away from himself, crimson eyes narrowing as he examined the image. A slow breath left him, and his expression grew thoughtful… almost distant.

 “This is…” he began quietly, but the words trailed off like mist. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t finish it.

 The quiet between them thickened, just for a second.

 And then he straightened, looking at her, not with judgment, but with something sharper. More searching.

 “You sure you’re just a witch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, that faint smirk returning—but dulled by something deeper, unreadable. “Because this doesn’t feel like coincidence.”

 Angel didn’t know what to say. Her throat felt dry, and her heart wouldn’t slow down.

 She’d seen something in his face as he looked at that drawing.

 Not anger.

 But recognition.

 As if some hidden part of himself had been reflected back… and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

 —To be Continued—