(Vale's POV)
I hate that he noticed the car.
Not because I don't want to be seen, but because I wasn't ready for him to see it. That sketch wasn't meant to be read like a diary entry, but the way Kian looked at it—and then at me—made me feel like I'd just left my journal open on a crowded bench.
I'm not used to being caught off guard.
We sat across from each other now, in the art room, supplies scattered between us. The table was wide, but not wide enough. I could feel his presence like a storm just starting to roll in. Quiet, distant thunder.
"So," I said, flipping my pencil once between my fingers, "what side are you planning to fake for this project?"
He looked up, a slow grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Fake?"
"You don't exactly strike me as the expressive artsy type."
"You don't exactly strike me as the secretive type," he said back.
I froze for half a second.
Then I smiled. Tight. Controlled. "Guess we're both full of surprises."
He didn't reply, just studied me like he was trying to figure out which box to put me in. I hoped he never found one that fit.
We got to work in silence. I sketched an abstract shape of two halves—light and shadow, interwoven like the layers I rarely showed. He watched for a moment, then added bold, jagged ink lines across the page. Harsh. Honest.
It was weird how well our styles worked together.
Maybe that was the most uncomfortable part of it all—how easy it was.
As the hour slipped by, I found myself watching the way he tapped his pen against the table when he was thinking. How his lashes were too long for someone who smirked that much. How he didn't fill silence with nonsense the way most people did.
"Why did you transfer here?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
He paused. "Family stuff."
Ah.The kind of answer I gave when I didn't want to talk either.
"Same," I murmured.
He looked up.
And just for a second, something unspoken passed between us. Not connection. Not yet.But recognition.
We were both carrying things neither of us had put down yet.