Melody Rivera wanted to draw a love story. Not just any story—the one about the boy next door. She planned a whole picture book, page by page, starting with his face. But she couldn't draw his face. Every time she raised her pencil in the yard, he looked up. He was that shy. One glance from her and he ducked behind his mailbox or hurried inside. She had ruined three sketches this week to that quick brown blur of him leaving. So she needed a hiding spot. Somewhere she could watch and draw without being seen. She scanned both yards. The fence was too low. The porch faced the wrong way. Then she saw the tree at the property line—a sakura with pink blossoms and purple vines draped like curtains through its branches. Wide enough to sit behind. Thick enough to hide her. Melody climbed up with her tiny sketchbook, the one small enough to hide in her palm. She settled on a low branch and parted the vines. Perfect. Ethan Mills stood below in the neighbor's yard, sleeves pushed up, stacking split firewood against the wall. He worked without hurry. Every log went flat and even. She started to draw his hands. The branch cracked. Not a warning—a real break. Melody dropped straight through the blossoms and hit the grass hard. Her sketchbook flew into the dirt. Her ankle folded under her and stung. Ethan was there before she could hide anything. He knelt, quick and quiet, and steadied her shoulder with one warm hand. "Don't stand yet," he said. "Let me see it." He checked her ankle the careful way he'd stacked the wood. Then he picked up her sketchbook from the dirt and brushed the cover clean. It fell open in his hands. Melody froze. On the page was his own face, half finished—his hair, his eyes, drawn again and again from a dozen stolen angles. He went still. His ears turned red. He looked at the page, then at her, and did not run. "You've been drawing me," he said. It wasn't a question. "I'm making a book," Melody said. The truth came out before she could stop it. "About us. I mean—I wanted it to be about us." Ethan closed the sketchbook gently and held it out to her. His hand shook a little. But he was smiling, small and shy. "You don't need to hide in a tree," he said. "If you want to draw me, just ask. I'll sit still." Melody took the book back. The hiding spot was gone, the branch was broken, and her ankle throbbed. But she didn't need to hide anymore. He knew. Now she had to draw a love story with the boy watching her do it—and she had no idea how to make it come true.