Monday afternoon feels heavier than Friday did. Hallways pulse with noise—students rushing, lockers slamming, teachers calling names—but Aria moves through it like a silent observer, cataloging patterns, listening more than speaking.
She notices Luca immediately as she enters the courtyard. He's sitting on the low brick wall by the art building, sketchbook open, shoulders slightly hunched. He doesn't glance up. He doesn't need to.
Aria walks over slowly, her shoes brushing against fallen leaves.
"You're here early," she says, voice quiet but clear.
He shrugs without looking up. "I like the light. Makes drawing easier."
She nods, lowering herself to the wall beside him. Careful not to crowd. Careful not to assume.
For several minutes, neither speaks. The only sounds are pencil against paper and the faint city noise beyond the wall. Aria studies him—his focus, the way his hands move, the subtle tension of his shoulders. Not guarded in a defensive way, but measured. Precise.
"You draw a lot," she says softly after a while.
"Depends on what I notice," he replies. "Some things are worth remembering."
She tilts her head, curious. "Even… people?"
He pauses, pencil hovering over the page. Finally, he glances up, eyes brief but steady. "Depends on the person."
Aria smiles faintly. Not teasing, not flirty. Just… present.
"Then I'll take that as a compliment," she says.
Days pass, and the art room becomes a sort of unofficial refuge. They meet after classes, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for an hour. Words are sparse. Conversation is careful. Shared silence stretches comfortably between them.
Aria notices patterns: the way he watches sunlight shift across the courtyard before drawing it, how he tilts his head when he's thinking, how small details in her presence register even without comment.
She begins to sketch quietly too, not because she wants to compete, but because sitting there, observing, connecting, it feels… right.
Sometimes, their fingers brush over shared pencils or papers. Brief, fleeting, but it leaves a quiet imprint. Neither flinches. Neither comments. Neither overreacts.
The trust is growing, unspoken but real.
Not everything is quiet. Rumors start to swirl by Friday:
"…Did you see Aria with Luca?"
"…Is she trying to get involved with him?"
"…Everyone warns her, but she doesn't seem scared."
Aria hears it in snippets. She doesn't react immediately. Doesn't confront. Doesn't participate. She notes it internally, cataloging people's tendencies and social alignments.
She also notices Luca. He hasn't mentioned the rumors. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't change behavior. Yet she can tell he's aware. Observing. Protective, subtly, without acting impulsively.
This is new for her. A person who notices her, who considers her without needing to control her.
Walking home, the sky is pale with early evening light. She thinks about the week:
She hasn't flinched at gossip.
She hasn't needed to perform socially.
She's begun to notice Luca in ways beyond his reputation.
And he's begun to notice her, too, in the quietest, smallest ways.
She doesn't feel excitement. She doesn't feel butterflies. Not yet. She feels… attentive. Present. Careful.
Something is starting. Not drama. Not chaos. Something quiet, small, and steady.
And for Aria, that is enough to carry her through the week.