The morning air in LanVille feels softer than usual, like the whole campus is peaceful after a long, sleepless storm. The art building stands calm again. There's laughter outside, the sound of bicycles, the sound of a world trying to return to normal.
Alisson walks through the courtyard, sketchbook hugged to her chest. Her hair is loosely tied, strands catching in the breeze. For the first time in weeks, she isn't tensed at every sound.
Across the lawn, Stiles sits under a shade near the fountain, notebook open, pen moving lazily. He looks up as she approaches, a half-smile appearing on his lips.
"You're early," he says.
"Habit," she replies, sitting beside him. "Can't sleep past sunrise anymore."
He closes the notebook, studying her quietly. "You've been painting again."
She nods. "Something light this time. Sunflowers. I'm trying to remember what happy colors look like."
He grins. "Yellow suits you."
"Yellow?" she teases. "You mean exhausted and overworked?"
"No," he says, leaning closer. "I mean bright..... Alive."
The comment makes her laugh, she really laughs and for the first time since the attack. The sound catches him off guard; it's unguarded and melodic.
Later, they head to the small café off campus. The owner, Mrs. Linda, greets them with her usual cheery smile and a plate of chocolate cookies. Stiles orders coffee; Alisson gets iced tea, though she mostly plays with the straw while they talk about nothing and everything, art shows, finals, college gossip and more.
"Apparently someone started a rumor that you're writing a book about me," she says, smiling.
"I might be," he admits.
"Really?"
"It's called 'The Girl Who Terrified Every Dean in LanVille.'"
She nearly chokes on her drink, hitting his arm. "You're impossible."
"You love that," he says with a wink.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't look away this time.
As summer approaches, their days fall into a rhythm. Alisson paints in the studio again, doors open, bright lights on and Stiles writes nearby, the soft scratch of his pen blending with the quiet hum of her brush. Sometimes they talk; sometimes they don't need to.
One evening, she stops painting and studies him from across the room. His brow furrows when he writes, lips moving slightly as if he's whispering the words to himself. There's a peace in him that steadies her.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks.
He looks up. "That I never want this peace to end."
She smiles, walking over to him. "It doesn't have to."
Their hands brush as she leans closer to see what he's written. His pulse stirs; she feels it through his fingertips. For a moment, everything slows, her breath, the golden light, the smell of paint.
"You've got ink on your cheek," she murmurs.
"You could get it for me," he says softly.
She hesitates, then reaches up, brushing her thumb along his skin. The touch lingers longer than it should. When she pulls back, his hand catches hers.
"You missed a spot," he whispers.
She laughs, but he doesn't let go.
Their eyes meet and for once, there's no fear, no ghosts, no shadows. Just the soft, electric space between two people who've already been through too much.
He leans in. So does she.
The kiss is hesitant at first. Then it deepens, slow and certain, like sunlight warming a windowpane. Her hand slides to his shoulder; his fingers trace the back of her neck. It was intense and insatiable to both of them. When they finally part, they're both smiling.
"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he murmurs.
"Took you long enough," she whispers back.
By June, the semester ends, and summer stretches ahead. They stay in LanVille for the break, sharing lazy afternoons and aimless walks. Sometimes they picnic by the lake, sandwiches, a bottle of lemonade, sketchbooks spread between them. Other days they drive to the neighbouring outside towns.
One evening, they watch the sunset from the hood of Stiles's car. The sky was orange and violet; the air smells of salt and something sweet, freedom....., maybe.
"You ever think about what comes next?" Alisson asks.
"After summer?"
"After us."
He glances at her. "You mean if this doesn't last?"
She shakes her head. "No. I mean if it does."
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Then I'll keep writing until I run out of words. You'll keep painting until the world runs out of colors. And somewhere between, we'll meet in the middle."
"That's cheesy," she says softly.
"So are you," he replies.
She laughs, resting her head against his shoulder as the tide laps gently against the shore. The night arrives with the quiet rhythm of something beginning again.
Weeks drift by. Their relationship deepens, late night talks turn into shared mornings; stolen glances turn into long embraces. There are moments of tension, too little arguments about nothing that end in laughter, apologies, and sometimes a quiet, closeness that says what words can't.
But mostly, there's light. There's peace.
And one afternoon, when the rain returns gentle, not stormy they find themselves in Alisson's studio again. She's painting; he's sitting behind her, sketching her silhouette in his notebook.
"Don't you ever get tired of drawing me?" she asks, not turning.
"No," he says. "You change every time."
She smiles faintly, lowering her brush. "That's a nice thing to say."
"It's true."
He stands, walks to her side. Paint on her wrist; a streak of blue across her cheek. He reaches out, tracing it with a fingertip. She looks up at him, their faces inches apart.
"You'll smudge it," she whispers.
"Maybe it's better that way."
This time, the kiss is deeper, no hesitation, no fear. Just warmth, the sound of rain, and the feeling that they've finally found something unshakable.
When they part, she exhales softly, smiling. "You're going to ruin my painting."
"Worth it....." he says.
By the end of the summer, their love feels like something real, also imperfect, but honest. They've seen each other at their worst and still stayed. The past is fading into memory; the future is a promise waiting to be revealed.
As the last day of summer fades into dusk, Stiles closes his notebook and writes one line at the bottom of the page:
Sometimes, love isn't found. It's rebuilt.
And outside, through the open window, Alisson's laughter drifts across the quiet campus, bright, unbroken, and finally free.