Alexis's POV
I don't know why the psych department always feels more alive when it's falling apart. Maybe it's the flickering light. Or the coffee cups on the floor. Or maybe it's the way the whiteboard's half-erased, like even it got tired of our nonsense and just gave up.
It's 8:47 PM. The room smells like printer ink and burnout.
Ethan's at the front, putting slides together with this quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away from him for too long. I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, scribbling workshop prompts in my notebook like I actually know what I'm doing.
The hoodie's his. I didn't ask. He didn't notice. Or maybe he did and just… didn't mind.
I'm trying to stay focused. Be productive. Helpful. Normal. But my brain keeps short-circuiting every time he furrows his brow or runs a hand through his hair. Which is a lot. Honestly, the man needs a headband.
The door bursts open and in comes Amelia—tiny hurricane of glitter and espresso.
"Okay," she announces, waving two coffees and a smoothie like offerings to the gods, "I bring beverages, chaos, and a variety of unsolicited opinions!"
Behind her: Jhonathan. King of emotional stability. Casual button-down. Rolled sleeves. Looks like he walked out of a "How to Be a Functioning Adult" ad.
Amelia flashes a grin. "Told you it'd be fun!"
Jhonathan sighs like a man who's made peace with his fate. "I said I'd supervise. Not be kidnapped into an academic all-nighter."
I bite back a smile. Ethan doesn't bother—he laughs. One of those rare, real ones. It's deep and warm and kinda stupid how much it makes my chest flutter. My hand freezes mid-sentence.
Focus, Alexis. Jesus.
We dive into prep—notes, ideas, awkward disagreements over colour palettes. I keep doodling in the margins to keep my thoughts in check. A brain diagram. A stressed-out student hugging a cactus. Typical.
Then my pencil moves on its own.
Ethan's profile.
I don't even realize what I'm doing until I'm halfway into shading the curve of his jaw. The angle of his nose. That slight crease he gets between his brows when he's hyper focused. My breath catches. I finish the sketch quickly—too quickly—and flip the page like I'm hiding a secret. Which… I guess I am.
"You're literally sketching your man like a Victorian maiden," Amelia whisper-hisses, voice laced with chaos.
My soul leaves my body. "Shut up."
She just wiggles her eyebrows and sips her smoothie like she didn't just drag me into the sun.
By the time we're wrapping up, the room feels warm. Sleepy. Safe. Like the storm has passed but the thunder's still somewhere on the edge.
I'm slow to pack up. Not on purpose. Just… lingering. Ethan glances at me from across the room. No words, just that look.
"You want me to walk you back?" he asks, quiet enough for just me.
I nod, tugging my bag onto my shoulder. "Yeah. If you're not too tired."
"I'm good," he says, and the corners of his mouth lift just a little. That stupid soft smile.
Behind us, Amelia and Jhonathan are talking about smoothies and serotonin. She's pretending she doesn't like him. He's pretending he doesn't know.
I catch Amelia's eyes and raise my eyebrows.
She grins, wide and unapologetic. "I'll walk with Jhonathan. You two go be weird and romantic or whatever."
I flip her off affectionately. She blows me a kiss.
Ethan and I step outside, walking side by side under flickering streetlamps. Our steps match without trying.
He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.
But the silence isn't awkward. It's… gentle. Like both of us are thinking the same thing but not ready to ruin it by naming it.
Every so often, his shoulder brushes mine. I don't pull away.
And behind us, I hear Amelia laugh—light and unexpected—and Jhonathan saying something I can't catch, but the sound of it makes her laugh again.
There's something beautiful about hearing the people you care about sound happy.
It makes the night feel safer.
It makes this, whatever this is—feel like it could be real.
The next morning, class feels off
Maybe it's the magazine.
Campus just dropped a new issue of Shadows & Signals, and my sketch is in it. Charcoal. No name. No signature. But still—mine.
I tried to hide it. But I think part of me wanted it to be seen.
I see Ethan flipping through the pages across the room. He pauses on my piece. Stares at it longer than I expect him to. His expression softens—just a little. Like he knows. Or wants to.
He doesn't say anything.
But he doesn't look away either.
And across the room… Noah.
Of course it's Noah.
Always trying to compete. Always acting like I'm his rival, when I barely even think about him. But now he's staring at the magazine too. Then at me. His eyes narrow.
It's subtle. But it's there.
Recognition.
The sketch style. A caption. A memory of me doodling in lecture once? Who knows. But something clicks in his expression—and it's not curiosity.
It's possession.
"So that's your secret, huh?" I hear him mutter, like he's just discovered a weapon.
He doesn't confront me.
But I know that look.
Trouble's coming.
Later, I'm digging through my bag for my sketchbook. I find it right where I left it. But something's different.
There's a post-it stuck to one of the pages I thought I hid.
I picked it up.
It's his handwriting.
You've got a beautiful way of seeing people. I hope you start seeing yourself that way too. —E
I read it once. Then again.
I don't cry.
But I could.
Instead, I tuck the note back in carefully—like it's something sacred.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel it.
Not fear. Not panic.
Just... warmth.
That's enough.