The rain had stopped by the time Isla reached the lab that evening, but the campus felt heavier, as if the storm had sunk into the stones. Through the glass door she could see Jasper sitting alone, guitar on his knee, head bent. The usual smirk was gone. He was playing something slow, minor, a melody that crawled under her skin.
She hesitated, then pushed the door open. The hinges squeaked; he didn't look up.
"I got another message," she said quietly.
"I figured." His voice was flat. "They always do when there's a new bet."
She crossed the room. "Kellan told me about it. The pot's up to three hundred."
Jasper's fingers faltered on the strings. "Of course it's him. He runs it."
"Why don't you stop him?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "Because last time I tried, it backfired. People like their games. They don't care who bleeds."
She sat on the edge of the table, sketchbook in her lap. "Then why stay at Westbridge?"
He finally looked at her. "Because music's the only thing that's mine. If I leave, they win."
Something in his eyes—anger, grief, exhaustion—made her throat tighten. "I'm not here to play their game, Jasper."
"You say that now."
"I mean it." She opened the sketchbook to the piece she'd done while he played the night before: a figure reaching through waves of sound. "This is what I see when you play. Not gossip. Not bets. Just… this."
He stared at the drawing for a long time, then set the guitar aside and slid off his stool. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"They don't just bet on the girl." He moved closer, low voice rough. "They bet on me too. How long before I ruin it. How long before I push her away. How long before I crack."
Her heart thudded. "Why would they—"
"Because it's easier to watch a tragedy than to fix it." His laugh was a broken chord. "And I keep proving them right."
He reached for her sketchbook but stopped, hand hovering over the paper. "I don't want you caught in this."
For a moment she saw not the famous boy but someone tired of being a story. "Then help me end it," she said.
His eyes flicked to hers, searching. "You'd risk being a target?"
"I already am."
Silence stretched between them, charged. Then he took a step back, running a hand through his hair. "You're impossible."
"Good," she said softly.
He snorted but some of the tension left his shoulders. "Fine. We work on the project, but on our terms. Private rehearsals, no leaks. If anyone asks, we're just partners."
She nodded. "Deal."
He picked up his guitar again, fingers brushing the strings. "Then let's start."
She moved to the easel. As he played, she painted fast, the rhythm in his chords echoing in her brushstrokes. For the first time, the noise outside the lab—whispers, bets, texts—felt far away.
When he stopped, the room was dark except for the desk lamp. Her mural glowed on the canvas like captured sound. He stared at it, jaw slack. "That's… us."
"Maybe."
He set the guitar down. "You're going to get me in trouble, Isla Monroe."
She met his gaze. "Maybe I'll get us both out."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth—the first real one she'd seen. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't," she said, and meant it.
Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the glass. Inside, for the first time, they weren't just partners forced together—they were allies.