The morning sunlight glints off your newest hair color. Moonlit violet, according to the box you used in the dorm bathroom at midnight. You've always liked waking up as someone slightly different, as if every dye job resets the way people see you. Beckett never misses one.
He's already waiting at the quad's center, lounging against the old statue with his football duffel slung over his shoulder. He looks at home there, even when he's late. The grin on his face says he spotted you before you spotted him.
"New week, new color," Beckett calls, eyes tracing the streaks of purple tumbling over your shoulder. "What is this? Cosmic grape?"
You grin, tucking a strand behind your ear. "Moonlit violet. You could keep up if you actually paid attention once in a while."
"Please. I remember all your hair phases. Like the time you went chartreuse and Coach thought you were starting a protest."
You laugh, nudging him as you fall in step together. There's a rhythm to moving beside Beckett, built after a lifetime of soccer teams, summer pranks, and unspoken pacts. Some mornings it almost feels like muscle memory. You fit next to him without thinking.
He gives you a sideways glance, twirling his keys. "Honestly, I think you're doing it just to keep me guessing. Makes Mondays interesting, at least."
You shrug, shifting your backpack. "And what would you do if I suddenly stopped?"
He looks at you, serious for a heartbeat. "Probably give you a lecture on tradition. Or buy you some neon magenta, just to see you panic."
A laugh rises up, unbidden. "Jealous your buzz cut can't pull off magenta? Maybe next time I'll dye it for you. For science."
Beckett makes a face, but his eyes sparkle. "If Coach sees me with pink hair, I'm benched."
"You're just scared to go bold."
"Scared?" He scoffs. "I survived your frosted rose phase sophomore year. Some traumas stick."
You're halfway to the main hall, sunlight warming your shoulders. Campus bustles around you. Students yelling, music drifting, familiar excitement in the air. You press your sketchbook to your chest, feeling that little flutter you always get at the start of something new.
With Beckett beside you, fall has always felt like a promise. But this year, it feels more like a question.
The art building looms ahead, its brick facade covered in ivy and peeling concert posters. You pause at the entrance, turning to face him.
"Lunch later?" you ask.
"Obviously. I'm buying." Beckett adjusts his duffel. "Even though you owe me after I saved your sketch pad from the sprinklers last week."
"You mean when you knocked it into the puddle in the first place?"
"Details." He flashes you that crooked grin, the one that makes your stomach flip in ways you refuse to acknowledge. "See you at noon, Wells."
"See you, Ford."
You watch him jog toward the athletic center, his stride confident and easy. Then you push through the art building doors and let the familiar scent of linseed oil and ambition wash over you.
The studio smells like creativity and coffee. You slip through the double doors, grateful for the quiet hum of concentration. Easels stand in clusters, some still bare, others half finished with bold strokes and hesitant corrections. Yours waits in the corner by the tall windows, your canvas stretched and prepped from last week.
Professor Reyes is already at her desk, flipping through slides of Impressionist landscapes. She nods at you as you pass, her paint-smudged fingers tapping absently at her coffee mug. You love this space. It's the one place on campus where you feel like yourself. Unfiltered, unguarded.
You set your bag down and pull out your brushes. The mural project is due in two weeks, and you still haven't landed on the final concept. Something bold. Something that will make people stop and stare. Something that will prove you belong here, even on days when your confidence wavers.
Your phone buzzes against the table. A text from Beckett.
Beckett: Don't bail on me. I already claimed the good table by the windows.
You smile, thumbs hovering over the screen.
You: Wouldn't dream of it.
The girl at the easel next to yours leans over with a grin. She's petite, with dark curls and paint perpetually under her nails. Hannah. You remember now. She's in your figure drawing class too.
"Boyfriend?" Hannah asks, nodding at your phone.
"Best friend," you correct quickly.
She raises an eyebrow. "Sure."
You focus on mixing your palette, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. People always say things like that. It doesn't mean anything. It can't.
"Did you hear about the football team?" Hannah continues, oblivious. "Apparently, there's some big rivalry game coming up. My roommate's dating one of the linebackers. She says the guys are going insane over it."
"Beckett mentioned it," you say, keeping your tone casual. He's been stressed lately. More practices, more pressure. You've seen it in the way his jokes land a little softer, the way his shoulders hunch when he thinks no one is looking.
"You should come to the game," Hannah says. "It's supposed to be packed."
You nod absently, dragging your brush across the canvas. You've been to plenty of Beckett's games. You always go. It's tradition, like his teasing about your hair or your annual bet on who can eat more dining hall pizza. But lately, sitting in those bleachers feels different. Watching him move across the field, focused and fierce, makes something twist in your chest that you can't quite name.
Professor Reyes claps her hands, pulling the class to attention. "All right, everyone. Let's talk about risk. Art without risk is decoration. I want you to push yourselves this week. Make something that scares you."
Her words linger as you stare at your blank canvas. Make something that scares you.
You think about Beckett. About the way he looked at you this morning, sunlight catching in his eyes. About the years of friendship stacked between you like a wall. Solid, safe, unbreakable.
Or maybe, terrifyingly breakable.
By the time class ends, your hands are stained with cerulean and burnt sienna. You rinse your brushes in the communal sink, watching the colors swirl and disappear down the drain. Your stomach growls, reminding you that you skipped breakfast in favor of an extra hour of sleep.
The walk to the cafeteria is short but crowded. Students stream across the quad, backpacks bouncing, voices overlapping. You weave through the chaos, scanning for Beckett's familiar frame.
You spot him near the windows, already surrounded by his teammates. He waves you over, shoving someone's elbow off the table to make room.
"Took you long enough," he says, sliding a tray toward you. "I got you the good fries. The crispy ones."
"My hero," you say dryly, stealing one off his plate anyway.
His friend Marcus, a linebacker with a perpetual smirk, leans across the table. "So, Maren. Beckett says you've got some big art thing coming up."
"A showcase," you say. "Two weeks from now."
"She's being modest," Beckett cuts in. "It's a campus wide event. Her mural's going to be the centerpiece."
You kick him under the table. "It's not the centerpiece. It's just one of the pieces."
"Still a big deal," Beckett says, grinning. "Bigger than Marcus's last tackle, anyway."
Marcus throws a napkin at him. "I'd like to see you paint something."
"I'm an artist in my own way," Beckett says, mock serious. "Spatial awareness. Precision. Grace under pressure."
"You tripped over your own cleats yesterday," another teammate chimes in.
Laughter ripples around the table. You watch Beckett take it in stride, deflecting with ease. He's good at that. Turning everything into a joke, keeping things light. But you see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the table.
"Speaking of big deals," Marcus says, turning to you, "you coming to the rivalry game? It's going to be insane."
"I'll be there," you say.
Beckett's eyes flick to yours, something warm passing between you. "Good. I play better when you're watching."
Your pulse kicks up, just slightly. "No pressure, then."
"Never," he says, but his smile lingers.
Marcus leans back, arms crossed. "Okay, but real talk. Who gets more campus votes? Beckett's game or Maren's art showcase?"
"Oh, that's not even a question," you say. "Art wins every time."
Beckett raises an eyebrow. "You want to bet on that?"
"Absolutely."
"Loser buys coffee for a month," Beckett says, extending his hand.
You shake it, his grip warm and steady. "Deal."
The table erupts in hoots and commentary, bets flying left and right. But all you can focus on is the way Beckett's thumb brushes against your palm before he lets go.
That afternoon, you find yourself back in the studio, staring at the canvas. The rivalry bet is silly, harmless. But it stirs something in you. A need to prove yourself, to show Beckett and maybe yourself that you can hold your own.
You sketch rough outlines, experimenting with composition. A figure reaching toward light. Hands clasped across a divide. Abstract shapes bleeding into one another. Nothing feels right.
Your phone buzzes.
Beckett: Still at the studio?
You: Maybe.
Beckett: I'm coming over.
You don't have time to argue. Ten minutes later, he appears in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a shower. He looks tired but content, the kind of exhaustion that comes from doing something you love.
"You know you don't have to work this late," he says, dropping onto the paint splattered stool beside you.
"Says the guy who practices until midnight."
"Touché."
You set your brush down, turning to face him. "You okay? You seemed stressed at lunch."
He shrugs. "Big game coming up. Scouts might be there."
"That's huge, Beck."
"Yeah." He runs a hand over his face. "It's just a lot. Between football and vet school apps and trying to keep my grades up." He trails off, shaking his head. "Sorry. I didn't come here to complain."
"You're allowed to complain," you say softly. "That's what I'm here for."
He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in the air between you. The studio feels smaller, quieter. His gaze drops to your hands, paint stained and restless.
"You always know what to say," he murmurs.
"I've had a lot of practice."
His laugh is low, almost self deprecating. "Yeah. You have."
For a moment, neither of you moves. You can hear the hum of the building's ventilation, the distant echo of footsteps in the hall. Your heart beats louder than it should.
"Come on," Beckett says finally, standing. "Let's get out of here. I know a place."
The dorm rooftop isn't technically accessible after dark, but Beckett charmed the RA into giving him the access code months ago. You climb the narrow stairs together, emerging into cool night air and a sprawling view of campus lights.
Beckett spreads his jacket on the concrete, and you both sit, legs dangling over the edge. The city glitters in the distance, stars barely visible through the haze.
"Remember when we used to do this as kids?" you ask. "Climb onto your grandpa's shed and pretend we were on top of the world?"
"I remember you almost falling off," Beckett says. "I had to grab you by your backpack."
"You were so dramatic about it."
"You almost died."
"I was fine."
He smiles, shaking his head. "You've always been fearless. Even when you probably shouldn't be."
You pull your knees to your chest. "I'm not fearless. I just... I don't know. I guess I figure if I'm going to mess up, I might as well do it boldly."
"That's one way to live."
"What about you?" you ask. "You're the one jumping into a career that requires, like, eight more years of school. That's pretty bold."
"Or stupid," he says lightly.
"It's not stupid. It's what you love."
He's quiet for a moment, gaze fixed on the horizon. "Sometimes I wonder if it's enough. If loving something is enough to make it worth all the risk."
You turn to him, studying the lines of his face. Familiar and yet, lately, impossibly new. "Of course it is. That's the whole point, isn't it? To chase the things that scare you?"
His eyes meet yours, and something flickers there. Something you've seen before but never let yourself name.
"What scares you, Maren?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and electric. You think about Professor Reyes's words. Make something that scares you.
"Losing people," you say finally. "Losing the things that matter."
Beckett's jaw tightens. "You won't lose me."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His voice is fierce, certain. "We've been through everything together. That doesn't just go away."
You want to believe him. You want to believe that the wall between friendship and something more can stay intact, that you can keep your feelings locked away forever. But sitting here, under the stars, with his eyes searching yours, it feels impossible.
"Beckett," you start.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know."
And just like that, the moment stretches and breaks. He looks away first, clearing his throat, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Come on," he says, standing and offering you his hand. "It's getting late."
You take it, his grip warm and steady, and let him pull you to your feet. The rooftop feels colder now, the magic of the moment fading into something bittersweet.
As you climb back down the stairs, you can't shake the feeling that something shifted tonight. That the line you've been so careful not to cross is starting to blur.
And you're not sure if that terrifies you, or if it's exactly what you've been waiting for all along.