By the time Theo closed his locker, the photo was already folded neatly in his pocket.
He didn't look angry. Didn't sigh. Didn't even roll his eyes. He just tucked it away like a receipt you planned to throw out later—something acknowledged, not important enough to hold onto.
Isabella caught up to him outside the art building, arms crossed, heels clicking sharply against the concrete. Her expression was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Today's the last day," she said.
Theo blinked once. "Last day for what? Public humiliation? Because I think that already started."
She shot him a look. "For the assessment. And we haven't started anything."
He stopped walking.
She stopped too.
Students passed around them, laughter and conversation flowing like a river they'd stepped out of. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.
There was a pause. Then she added, calm but unyielding, "So today, no sleep."
Theo stared at her. "What?"
"Yes," she said, nodding like this had already been decided by some higher authority. "We're doing it tonight. At your place."
His brain stalled.
My place.
He imagined the cramped apartment. The uneven floor that creaked when you stepped too hard. The cheap shelves threatening to collapse under the weight of sketchbooks. The smell of old paint, instant noodles, and damp laundry.
"…Why my place?" he asked carefully.
She shrugged. "Mine's under renovation."
Of course it was.
Theo exhaled. "Just so you know, don't expect a mansion."
She tilted her head, studying him. "I don't know what it looks like."
He resumed walking. "Trust me. Lower your expectations anyway."
They hadn't gone far when the sky betrayed them.
Rain didn't fall—it attacked.
Within seconds, the street blurred into silver streaks. Water slammed against the pavement, splashing up onto their legs. Isabella gasped, clutching her bag to her chest.
"This is ridiculous!" she said. "Look at what I'm wearing!"
She gestured at her short sleeves and skirt like the rain had personally insulted her.
Theo glanced up. "It's not stopping."
"I'm not running in this," she said firmly. "I'll catch a cold."
"We're close."
"Nope."
He stared at her, then sighed. Without ceremony, he pulled off his hoodie and held it out.
"Here."
She froze. "What about you?"
"Don't worry about me," he said easily. "Take off the heels. Run with me."
He extended his hand.
Isabella hesitated. Rain soaked her hair, her makeup smearing just slightly. Then she took it.
Theo didn't think anything of it. To him, it was logistics.
To Isabella, it felt like something else entirely.
They ran.
By the time they reached the apartment building, both were laughing—her breathless, him soaked through. Inside, the stairwell smelled faintly of damp concrete and old wood. The lights flickered like they were deciding whether to stay on.
Halfway up, a cat lounged on the steps, completely unbothered by the storm.
Theo immediately crouched. "Hey, king."
Isabella blinked. "You know that cat?"
"It lives here," he said, scratching behind its ears. "Pays no rent. Typical."
The cat flicked its tail, clearly agreeing.
Theo unlocked the door, then paused, one hand on the knob.
"Welcome to my castle," he said solemnly.
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm scared."
Inside, Isabella took one step—and stopped.
The place was small. Not tragic. Just… tight. A single room with cheap shelves, canvases stacked against the wall, pencils scattered like fallen matchsticks. Paint stains marked the floor and walls, layered over each other like memories that refused to fade.
She took it in quietly.
This is it? she thought. This is where he lives?
There was no pretense here. No carefully curated image. Just proof of someone existing and creating in whatever space they could claim.
"Well?" Theo asked. "Still breathing?"
She cleared her throat. "So… can we start?"
"Oh—shit."
She frowned. "What?"
"I forgot," he said flatly. "I'm out of paint."
She stared at him, unimpressed.
Then she pulled out her phone. "I'll order it."
"…Oh."
He gestured awkwardly toward the counter. "Tea?"
She looked up. "Sure."
"…I only have water."
She smiled faintly. "That's fine."
They sat on the floor while they waited, backs against opposite walls. Rain drummed against the windows, steady and relentless. When the paint order went through, silence settled—comfortable, strange.
"So," Isabella said. "What do we paint?"
Theo opened his sketchbook. The pages were worn, corners bent, lines pressed deep from repetition.
"A cracked sky," he said. "Red clouds. People pointing."
She leaned closer, studying the rough lines. "At what?"
"Haven't decided," he replied. "Maybe at nothing. Maybe at themselves."
She nodded slowly, like the idea had landed somewhere deep.
When the paint arrived, they worked.
Time dissolved.
Hands smudged with color. Isabella rolled up her sleeves without complaint. Theo moved like he belonged to the canvas, confident and instinctive. The sky fractured into jagged lines. Crimson bled into gray. Figures emerged—faceless, fingers extended, accusing.
Paint splattered the floor. Neither cared.
At some point, Isabella yawned.
"Still alive?" Theo asked.
"Barely," she said. "You?"
"I run on caffeine and spite."
She laughed—soft, genuine, surprised by herself.
Hours later, they stepped back.
It wasn't finished.
But it was something.
Theo wiped his hands on a rag. Isabella hugged the hoodie tighter around herself, realizing she'd never given it back.
Outside, the rain finally slowed, the city exhaling after holding its breath.
Neither of them spoke.
And for once, the silence didn't feel empty.