Anna slipped out of the studio, her heels clicking faintly against the polished floor as she left Ryan to update his phones and his contacts. The scent of linseed oil and acrylics lingered in the air behind her as she pushed open the heavy doors of the art building and stepped into the cool breath of evening.
Outside, the campus had thinned to whispers. Streetlamps blinked on one by one like watchful eyes. At the bottom of the steps, Luna was just rounding the corner, hands tucked in his hoodie pockets, earbuds slung loosely around his neck. He was heading toward the bus stop when he caught sight of her.
"Anna?" he asked, surprised. "What are you doing over here so late?"
She gave him a small, knowing smile, brushing a curl from her face. "Just coming from Rachel's studio. She's still inside—working on her art for the exhibition."
At the mention of Rachel, Luna's face lit up with something shy and curious. "Wait—Rachel is still working on her art this late…and alone?"
Anna nodded. "Mm-hmm. She'll be fine…but I'm sure she'd appreciate the company. If you're quick, you might catch her. Just look for the room with the light still on. Everything else is locked up for the night."
With that, she turned and vanished down the path like a ghost of daylight, leaving Luna blinking after her.
He paused for only a second, then turned on his heel, drawn by a pull he didn't quite understand—equal parts curiosity, politeness. Up until that point, he hadn't had a chance to see her work up close. He stepped quietly into the nearly empty building, the soft hum of fluorescent lighting above guiding him as he searched for the one door still lit from within.
***
While Luna lingered outside, chatting idly with Anna under the amber glow of the courtyard lamps, Ryan was inside, crouched low, squinting at the screen of his phone. He had just finished adjusting the sync settings between two phones—one his, the other Rachel's, both identities living parallel lives in the same trembling fingers.
He let out a sigh of relief and stretched, joints cracking as he rose from the low stool by his easel. The half-finished painting behind him glistened in bold, violent strokes—still wet, still raw. He turned, stepping toward the narrow shelf at the back of the studio where his worn leather satchel waited.
But then—squelch—crash.
His foot caught on the edge of a forgotten paint can tucked too close to the floor. The tin tipped, and with it came a glossy tide of deep ultramarine, spilling across the tiles and right onto his frilly skirts and the hem of his oversized button-up blouse.
"Shit!" he hissed, hopping back, but too late—the damage bloomed fast and merciless. Anna's meticulously styled feminine attire was now a mess of paint and lace.
Cursing under his breath, Ryan yanked his phone back out and quickly dialed. "Elizabeth? It's me. I need a change of clothes. Like, now."
He ended the call, voice clipped and urgent, then paced for a moment before finally making up his mind. He ducked into the aisle storage area—a narrow corridor lined with wooden drawers and rolling carts of sculpting tools—and began stripping out of the ruined clothes.
In the quiet hush of the studio, he peeled the blouse from his body, revealing the stark lines of his binder—white, worn, tight across his chest. Cold air kissed his skin as he tugged on the only clean thing he could find in his bag: a loose white wifebeater that clung damply over the compression fabric. He ran a hand through his long blond hair, breath steadying.
And just then—at the edge of the hallway—came the creak of the studio door.