I promised myself I'd act normal today. Just normal. No staring, no daydreaming, no replaying yesterday in my head like some hopeless fool.

That plan lasted about... five seconds.

Because the moment I walked into class, Sia turned in her seat and gave me this tiny smile—mischievous, knowing, like she had already caught me thinking about her. My knees wobbled. Normal? Impossible.

"Good morning," she chirped, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

I fumbled my books so badly one nearly slid off the desk. "G-Good morning," I managed, trying not to sound like my entire nervous system had just shut down.

Her gaze lingered on me a moment too long. Then she leaned closer, whispering like she was letting me in on a secret. "Did you finish the sketch assignment?"

Of course I hadn't finished it properly. But my brain decided blurting the truth was optional. "Y-Yeah. Almost."

She smiled like she could see right through me, and my stomach fluttered so hard I thought I might faint. "I'll show you mine after class," she said casually.

"Yes!" I answered too quickly. Too loud. Too... everything.

Her lips twitched into a grin, and she tilted her head, obviously amused by how hopelessly eager I sounded. I wanted to sink under the desk and never come back.

The rest of the lesson blurred by in a haze of half-scribbled notes and me trying (and failing) not to stare at her profile. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, bit her pencil, laughed softly at something the professor said... and every tiny action stabbed me with the sharpest, sweetest ache.

By the time the bell rang, the classroom had emptied into chaos. I stayed behind, pretending to organize my notes, though really I was just stalling, hoping—no, praying—she might notice.

And she did.

The door opened, and there she was again, framed in the light from the hallway. She spotted me instantly. Her expression softened, and my heart skipped a full beat.

"You didn't leave?" she asked, stepping closer.

"I... decided to stay." Smooth. Very smooth, Sam.

She didn't tease me for the lame excuse. Instead, she plopped into the seat beside me like it was the most natural thing. "Will you not share your lunch with me?" she asked suddenly, her tone playful. "Or are you going to eat it all alone like a dragon hoarding treasure?"

I choked on a laugh. "It's not like that!"

"Then prove it." She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. "Say 'Aaaa,' come on." She opened her mouth dramatically like a child demanding a bite.

My brain short-circuited. Completely. Was she serious? Was this... happening?

Before I could even recover, she held out a piece of food to me with her fingers. "Here. Don't overthink it."

Don't overthink it?! How was I supposed to do anything but overthink it when her hand was right there, waiting, so close I could see the faint smudge of pencil on her thumb?

My lips brushed the food—careful not to touch her skin—and still, heat flared through me so wildly it almost made me dizzy.

She giggled, leaning back like she knew exactly what kind of havoc she'd caused.

As if that wasn't enough, she pulled out her sketchbook. "Want to see mine now?"

I nodded, still trying to remember how to breathe. She flipped it open, and my jaw nearly dropped.

Her drawing was beautiful—alive, delicate, every line thoughtful. "This is incredible," I whispered. "You're incredible."

Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. "It's nothing. Just a doodle."

Nothing. How could she call it that? She was sunlight disguised as a girl, and even her sketches carried that glow.

Then she looked at me expectantly. "Show me yours."

Panic. Pure panic. My hands shook as I passed her my notebook.

She stared for a long time. My chest squeezed tighter with every silent second.

It was her. The way I first saw her—lost in sunlight, her hair falling soft.

"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I shouldn't have—"

"Really?" Her voice was quiet, almost trembling.

I froze.

Then she broke into the softest smile. "How can you draw me like this? It's so... alive. I love it. I really, really love it."

Before I could even process her words, she hugged the sketch to her chest, gasped, and looked at me with pleading eyes. "Can I keep this? Please... pleaaase?"

That stretched-out plea. That playful pout. I was gone. Completely gone.

I nodded helplessly.

Her eyes sparkled, and then she leaned closer, lips curling into that mischievous grin that always spelled trouble. "Hmm... if I'm keeping your sketch, then..."

Before I could ask what she meant, she suddenly threw her arms around me.

Just like that.

"Thank youuu," she sang softly, drawing out the words against my shoulder like a playful secret.

My brain shut down completely.

Her hair brushed my cheek, ticklish, soft. Her hands squeezed my sides just a little, almost as if she wanted me to squirm. My entire body stiffened like an idiot, but she only laughed under her breath, the sound muffled where her face pressed against me.

"Sam, why do you freeze like a statue every time I touch you?" she teased, her voice vibrating right against my collarbone.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely working. "I-I don't..."

"You do," she whispered, giggling, tightening her hold for emphasis. "See? Like right now."

Heat flooded my face. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or melt straight into the floor.

Her hug wasn't careful or delicate—it was playful, sure, and warm, and alive. She squeezed me like I was hers to hold, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And me? My heart was banging against my ribs so loudly I was terrified she could hear it.

I wanted to hug her back, to let my arms finally do what they'd been aching to do since the first moment she'd leaned close. But fear pinned me in place.

She didn't seem to mind. She only burrowed closer, her voice muffled but bright. "I'm keeping the sketch... and this moment too."

She pulled back finally, eyes gleaming, lips curved in a victorious little smile.

And I sat there trembling, wondering---

If happiness had weight, if longing had warmth, if love had a shape—
It would feel exactly like this.

Her arms around me. Her body against mine.
Her existence stitched into my very skin.