---
It rained that Monday.
Not the soft, movie-scene kind. Not the romantic drizzle that clings gently to the edges of things and makes the world feel cinematic.
This was *ugly* rain—sideways sheets slamming against windows, soaking through jackets in seconds, making the school parking lot look like a low-budget apocalypse.
By the time Lena made it inside, her socks were wet, her hair frizzed, and her mood circling the drain. The florescent hallway lights didn't help. Nor did the clumps of students hovering near their lockers, all talking too loud about nothing that mattered.
She kept her hood up and her eyes down, moving through the noise like she was allergic to it.
And then—just before turning the corner toward her locker—she stopped.
There, leaning against the wall with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a lollipop in his mouth, was Jace.
Of course it was Jace.
He hadn't seen her yet. His gaze was somewhere over the crowd, fingers rhythmically tapping against the metal vent behind him, the same way they did when he was nervous or bored or lost in his head.
Lena could've walked away.
Could've pretended she didn't see him.
But she didn't.
Instead, she walked straight toward him.
"Didn't know you were into candy," she said, nodding toward the lollipop.
He looked at her, slow and deliberate, like he wasn't surprised to see her—but pleased anyway. "It's mango. Don't judge me."
She smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He pulled the candy from his mouth and twirled the stick between his fingers. "You come to the showcase."
It wasn't a question.
She shrugged. "Yeah."
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
And then Jace said, softer, "You didn't have to."
"I know."
He nodded once, like that meant something. Then turned and started walking toward their lockers. She followed without a word.
---
Later that day, during English, Lena found herself zoning out.
Mrs. Carmichael was rambling about Shakespeare again, quoting passages from *Twelfth Night* with too much enthusiasm and not enough pause. Lena's notebook remained mostly blank, save for a few scattered scribbles and one absent-minded doodle of a sunflower.
She wasn't thinking about the play.
She was thinking about the lyric Jace left in her locker.
*The only thing louder than silence
is wanting something you're not supposed to.*
What did he mean by that?
Was it about her?
Or was she just projecting again?
She was good at that—reading between the lines so obsessively she often invented meaning where there was none. But with Jace, it felt harder to dismiss. Like everything *did* mean something. Like silence between them wasn't empty. It was *loaded*.
He didn't act like the boy he used to be. Not anymore. He'd changed. Or maybe she had.
Or maybe, just maybe, they were both peeling off layers they'd hidden under too long.
When the bell rang, Lena gathered her things slowly, waiting for the room to empty before heading for the door.
But just as she stepped into the hallway, she found Jace leaning against the locker next to hers.
Again.
"You're like a ghost," she muttered, rolling her eyes.
He shrugged. "I like the view from here."
She blinked. "The view?"
"Your thinking face," he said, tapping his temple. "It's very dramatic. Ten out of ten brooding energy."
Lena opened her locker. "I wasn't brooding."
"You were literally drawing sunflowers in the margins."
"That's not brooding. That's called *art.*"
He chuckled. "Fine. You win. But for the record…" His voice dipped lower. "It was a good sunflower."
---
By Wednesday, something unspoken had shifted.
They weren't friends.
They weren't enemies.
But they were definitely *something*.
They walked to class together. Not every period. But enough that people started to notice. Enough that whispers began to trickle through the cafeteria and between passing bells.
Lena heard her name more that week than she had all semester.
"Did you hear she's working with Jace Rivera?"
"Weren't they, like, enemies last year?"
"Didn't he trip her once in gym?"
"No, she threw a pencil at him during a math test."
"They've got weird energy."
And maybe they did.
Weird wasn't always bad.
---
They were halfway through their project by the end of the week, and Jace suggested they work at his place next.
Lena hesitated.
Not because she didn't want to. But because she *did*—and that was the problem.
She said yes anyway.
---
Jace's house was smaller than hers. Cozier. Tucked into a quiet cul-de-sac with cracked pavement and an overgrown yard. The paint on the shutters was chipped, and the front door stuck a little when he pushed it open.
"Home sweet mess," he said, stepping aside to let her in.
Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and old books. A guitar leaned against the wall near the couch, and a sketchpad sat open on the coffee table, half-finished lines sprawling across the page.
"You draw?" Lena asked, nodding to it.
"Badly," he said, closing it with a sheepish grin. "But it helps."
"Helps with what?"
He shrugged. "Existing."
That word stayed with her.
Existing.
Like it was a battle.
---
They worked on the living room floor, surrounded by scattered pages and the quiet hum of a playlist Jace had put on in the background—mostly indie stuff with soft vocals and melancholic guitar riffs.
At one point, while she was editing a paragraph, she felt his eyes on her.
"What?" she asked, not looking up.
"You always tuck your hair behind your ear when you're focused."
She blinked. "So?"
He grinned. "It's just... humanizing."
She glanced up at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or flattered.
He was already looking away, pretending to read something on his laptop.
---
Later, his mom came home.
She was younger than Lena expected. Or maybe just tired in a way that made her seem older.
Jace introduced them, awkwardly, and his mom gave Lena a quick, polite smile before disappearing into the kitchen.
"Don't mind her," he said after she left. "She works late a lot."
Lena didn't ask about his dad.
And he didn't offer.
But when she looked at the family photo on the mantle—three people standing stiffly in front of a Christmas tree—it told her everything she needed to know.
---
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows through the windows, Jace walked her to the door.
"You're better at writing than you think," she said, stepping outside.
"You're better at being human than you let on," he replied.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She stood on the porch for a full minute before walking home.
---