The art club had one rule:
If you spill it, you clean it.
Which is exactly how I ended up staying late after school, trying to mop up an exploded bottle of acrylic paint that someone (Jayce, probably) kicked across the room like a soccer ball.
I was alone.
Sweaty.
Annoyed.
And covered in cerulean blue like a depressed smurf.
Until—
"Need a hand, art girl?"
I turned.
Damian.
Leaning in the doorway. Backpack slung. Wearing sin.
"Did you follow me here?" I asked.
"No," he said, stepping in. "I tracked your aura."
Of course he did.
The Setup: Two Idiots. One Mop. And Too Much Tension
He grabbed a rag and started scrubbing beside me.
Silence.
Then—
"I missed talking to you," he said, voice softer than usual.
My throat tightened. "You left me on the rooftop."
"I know," he said, guilt in his eyes. "I got a call. I had to go."
"Who was it?"
He hesitated. "Complicated."
And of course, just as I was about to push again—
His hand slipped.
And he knocked over the open tray of yellow paint.
Right. Onto me.
I gasped.
He froze.
"…Oops."
Cue: The Great Paint War of Flirtation and Regret™
"Oh. You're dead," I growled.
Before he could run, I grabbed a paintbrush, dipped it in red, and smeared it right across his cheek.
"Now we're even."
His eyes gleamed.
"Oh no, no, no," he said, grabbing a second brush.
"You started this."
War. Began.
Paint flew.
Brushes clashed.
Somehow I ended up backed against the easel, laughing like a maniac, cheeks stained with green and purple.
"You look ridiculous," he said, eyes glowing.
"Says Picasso's evil twin."
"Touché."
Then we just…froze.
The Intimate Moment
He stepped closer. Too close.
"You've got blue on your nose," he whispered.
Then, slowly, he reached up—
wiped it with his thumb—
and didn't move his hand.
We were inches apart.
Heart pounding.
Paint dripping.
Time? Irrelevant.
"I'm sorry I ran," he murmured.
I swallowed. "I don't know if I can trust you."
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"I'll earn it. Every second. Just… don't look at me like I'm the enemy."
We stayed like that—
Almost something.
Almost enough.
And then—
A voice behind us.
"Seriously?"
I jumped back.
Aeron.
Standing in the doorway.
Face blank.
Eyes sharp.
Voice… low.
"I came to check on you," he said to me, not looking at Damian.
"And I find this."
Damian stepped away, suddenly tense. "It was just a paint fight."
"Sure it was," Aeron muttered.
The silence between them was so thick you could cut it with a palette knife.
Me?
I was standing in the middle like a dripping rainbow-colored war crime.
End of Chapter 16