Booth Seven sat near the west wing of the campus gym, close to the gallery line but just far enough from the high-traffic booths that it didn't immediately command attention. But the artwork did.
Paintings -- raw, sharp, precise -- pulled people in the way words never could. Some were oil-heavy portraits. Some ink sketches, others layered abstracts. All of them carried Damien Cross's signature, though not one was signed. The crowd didn't need it spelled out.
Maya had been there before the first visitor arrived, adjusting the stands, rearranging the labels that barely said anything. She brushed off invisible dust from a small framed sketch near the edge of the table, her eyes scanning everything for flaws that weren't there. The booth was simple, intentional. Just like Damien.
The whispers started before nine.
"Is that her again?"
"She's in this one too."
"Didn't he paint her at the talent show?"
Maya heard all of it.
She wasn't a stranger to attention. Not after the live painting performance during last year's talent show where Damien had painted her on stage, slowly revealing her face to a hushed audience as music played behind them. The applause then had been deafening. But this was different.
Back then, she had been a performance.
Now she was a presence.
And no one knew what to do with that.
She didn't paint anything in the booth, though she'd helped prep the canvases, frame the pieces, and handle the setup alongside Damien. Still, people looked at her like she was co-author of every brushstroke. Maybe in some way, she was.
Damien arrived fifteen minutes late, as usual. No rush. Just quiet steps and the faint smell of turpentine clinging to his jacket. A few people turned as he entered, like a silent cue had gone off.
Maya didn't greet him. She just moved aside so he could take his usual spot near the easel.
He glanced at the sketch she'd repositioned.
"You moved that."
"It was off-center."
"It was fine before."
"I know."
He said nothing more, just stood beside her as the sun shifted through the gym windows and cast long shadows behind the booth. Together, they waited as the morning crowd trickled in.
A couple students stopped to ask questions. Damien answered in clipped tones, barely looking up. Maya handled the rest, explaining mediums and techniques, even though most people weren't really listening. They were too busy trying to find the pieces that resembled her.
One guy leaned in close to a particular charcoal piece. "This one's definitely her. Right? Look at the jawline."
Maya stared him down until he backed away, mumbling.
Damien didn't flinch.
He just picked up a blank canvas, set it on the standing easel, and began painting.
People gathered immediately. Some recognized the way his hand moved before the image appeared. Others just sensed something was happening. Maya stood beside him, arms folded, unmoved by the attention. Damien didn't perform for them. He never had.
By midday, the gym had filled. Booths offering digital art, handmade jewelry, graphic novels, wood carvings -- all buzzing. But Booth Seven held its own. There was something about the silence around it. The space it demanded without asking.
Then came the shift.
A familiar laugh cut through the hum of voices.
Maya looked up, already knowing.
Logan strode in with casual arrogance, Brielle draped on his arm like a curated accessory. Her heels clicked too loudly on the gym floor. His grin arrived before he did.
Maya's stomach didn't twist. Not anymore.
She'd felt it break once already -- weeks ago -- when Logan had dumped her in the courtyard, in full view of half the senior year. His words hadn't needed volume to sting. He'd chosen them too well. And Brielle had already been at his side by then, her lipstick matching his hoodie like it was planned.
Now, they stopped in front of Booth Seven like they belonged.
"Well, look at this," Brielle said, eyes scanning the art. "Didn't know we were doing couples' booths."
Maya didn't move.
"It's not a couples' booth," she said.
Brielle raised an eyebrow. "Really? Sure seems like it."
Logan's eyes slid from the canvas to Maya's face, then to Damien, then back again.
He tilted his head at one of the portraits. "That's her, isn't it? Thought so. Still got the same chin."
Damien didn't answer. He kept painting.
Brielle smiled wider. "So… you're a full-time duo now?"
Maya opened her mouth, but Damien's voice cut in.
"Are you lost?"
Brielle blinked. "Excuse me?"
"This booth's full."
Logan laughed, low and unbothered. "Relax, man. We're just looking."
"Then look somewhere else."
There was no threat in Damien's voice. Just steel.
Brielle scoffed. "Wow. Didn't know sharing a booth gave you so much attitude."
Damien finally looked up, brush paused mid-stroke.
"Don't mistake silence for weakness."
For a second, Logan's jaw tightened. But he smirked and stepped back, tugging Brielle along with him.
"Chill. We're just passing through."
They moved on. Slowly. But Maya could still feel their eyes at her back.
She let out a breath. "You didn't have to do that."
Damien wiped his brush on a cloth. "I know."
"I can handle them."
"I didn't do it for you."
She turned to look at him. "Then who?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he glanced down at his unfinished painting. It was starting to look like a room -- sunlight through windows, a figure turned away, half-formed in a corner.
"I hate when people ruin quiet things," he said finally.
They didn't speak for a while after that.
The rest of the afternoon passed in slow pulses of conversation, photos, half-hearted critiques, and a surprising number of compliments. Damien's work spoke for itself, but so did the energy around them. People lingered longer at Booth Seven than anywhere else.
Some asked questions. Others just stared.
By five, the crowd thinned.
Damien capped his paints and packed away his brushes. Maya handed him the cloths, folding the edges neatly.
"Want to eat after this?" he asked, eyes still on the last canvas.
She hesitated.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she wasn't sure if she wanted to admit it.
"…Alright."
He nodded once.
As they stepped out of Booth Seven, side by side, the weight in her chest felt less heavy than it had all morning.