The sun wasn't too harsh yet.
It peeked through the budding trees that lined the stone bench near the old lecture hall, scattering light like little golden flecks across the open pages of Noel's book.
The air was crisp, the kind that still held onto last night's chill, but softened by the promise of a warm day ahead.
Noel sat with one leg tucked under him, elbow propped lazily on the table, a novel in one hand, and his other resting over his closed notebook.
His eyes moved steadily across the page, but he wasn't rushing—just letting the words settle like they had all the time in the world.
Beside him, Lina stretched her arms above her head with a quiet groan, then dropped them dramatically.
"I swear," she said, eyeing the digital sketchpad balanced on her knee, "if I have to revise this perspective grid one more time, I'm going to scream—gently, but still scream."
