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“Um, hi?” she whispers, confused, because doesn’t even spare her a glance or at least make any bodily movement to show that he’s at least aware of her presence in the car.

He remains motionless, gazing out the window. His rigid stance and tight jaw mirrors the stiffness he displayed on their coffee date when Waylen was placing his order.

“Hello?” she waves her hand in front of him.

“Who is he?” Finally, he speaks, his eyes still fixed on the window, or whatever intrigues him behind the tinted glass.

His gaze finally meet hers, golden eyes reflecting a fierce internal struggle. “That’s not your Japanese friend.”

He appears to be wrestling with a feeling similar to anger.

His perfectly arched brows are curved down.

But he still looks so breathtaking. And she’s struck anew by the spellbinding beauty that makes it hard to breathe.

Highlighted by the darkness of the car, he looks ethereal, like the moon indeed.

“A friend.” She shrugs, too focused on trying to wrap her head around why he’s here, to ponder over why he is so particular about Banks.

“You’ve never told me about him.”

“He’s also from Kenji’s soccer team,” she tells him. “He was dropping me off at home because Kenji couldn’t.”

Without another word, he returns his gaze to the window, observing Banks’ car leave the parking lot rapidly.

“Is there a problem?”

He veers away from the window, his eyes falling on her. The shadow obscuring them moments before starts to move, unveiling the radiant, fiery light she glimpses in her dreams. It’s a slow and steady transformation, like dawn pushing back the night.

His jaw relaxes, a smile almost forms on his lips, but then fades before it fully materializes.

“I didn’t like it.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it settles deep in her bones. His gaze drops to his hands, and for the briefest moment, she catches a tremor in his left one. But before she can process it, he quickly covers it with his right hand.

“You, um,” she brushes a strand of hair off her lip and looks back at his face, a sensation of tension gripping her chest. “You didn’t like what?”

“When he touched you.” The words are raw, barely restrained. His breath sharpens, chest expanding with a force of something he can’t quite explain.

“And considering it further, the thought of seeing that again doesn’t sit well with me.” After a pause and hesitation, he locks eyes with her, his gaze intense as if seeking to etch the next word into her very being. “I don’t want another man to touch you.”

Her heart skips. It’s not the words that steal her breath. It’s the way he says them so carelessly, as if they hold no significance at all.

But they do.

“Why?” The word slips out, fragile and laced with something dangerously close to hope.

His brow furrows. “Do you need a reason?”

“Yes, actually. I do.”

He leans back in the leather chair, exhales, and studies her with such intensity that she feels a prickling heat on her skin. “When I figure out the reason, I’ll tell you.”

She might spend a really long time waiting for this reason. Because this is probably new to him. Maybe he has never really liked someone before. But she desperately needs him to understand what he’s feeling. She needs him to be able to define exactly this thing that lingers between them.

And most of all, she needs him to accept it. Accept her. Just like Ian Griswyk did…or at least, something close.

“So, why did you come here?” she asks, pushing away the thought that gnaws at the edge of her mind.

“You wanted to see me,” he replies.

She smiles, her eyes taking him in with a fresh, new perspective. His white hair is pulled into the usual half-bun, a few loose strands falling over his sharp profile.

The soft glow from the car’s lamp casts a delicate shadow over him, accentuating the dark beauty of his features.

She wants to touch his face, feel the silkiness of his skin against her fingertips.

“What’s that?” Her gaze drops to the sketchpad she has noticed on his lap since, but only paying attention to now.

“You didn’t tell me about this hobby.” A quiet accusation lingers in her voice as she lifts the book to her hand.

She flips to the first page and her breath catches.

From the meticulously sketched paper, a girl’s gaze meets hers. A cotton top, arm warmers, and a tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

Her hair is in a French braid, a few loose curls framing her face.

Her.

Her fingers tremble as they trace the graphite lines, the delicate shading of her face.

She swallows hard, lifting her gaze. And he is already watching her.

“It’s beautiful,” she beams. “Thank you.”

Returning her gaze to the book, she turns to the next page.

Her again.

She’s in her school uniform. Her usual maroon tie and skirt are shaded in smooth pencil strokes instead, her hair falling down her shoulders in bold waves. There is a copy of a book opened in her hands as she leans against a bookshelf.

The bookstore.

The sketchpad shakes in her hand as her fingers continue to glide through every page of the sketchpad which somehow, are never empty, filled with meticulous sketches.

At the end, she discovers that there are about forty pages total in the sketchpad. And every page features the same girl, sketched delicately with graphite.

Her.

He has been drawing her every day.