Venessa reached the bus stop and let out a long, quiet sigh.
This was it. Her chance to finally shake him off, even if just for a day. Vince was persistent—more than anyone she'd ever met. And while she was used to attention, this kind of consistency was new... and annoying.
But also—maybe—kind of interesting.
The bus pulled up with a low hum. She boarded, swiped her ID, and made her way to the back, sliding into the window seat like it was her personal sanctuary.
"I guess I won," she whispered to herself, letting the soft motion of the bus calm her.
Then, just as the doors started to hiss shut—
THUD.
A figure came flying in through the entrance, practically collapsing on his knees.
Vince.
Still in his soccer uniform, soaked in sweat, chest heaving like he'd just outrun a bear.
Vanessa's eyes widened. You've got to be kidding me.
He spotted her instantly, beamed like he'd just won the Olympics, and plopped down right beside her.
"I made it," he panted, grinning like a lunatic.
She blinked, stunned. "You... you actually made it?"
"Barely," he said, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. "But I did."
Vanessa turned her head to the window.
"You're incredibly determined," she said.
"I know," Vince replied. "And now that I won... we can talk. All the way to your house."
He leaned back, smug and breathless, looking like a guy who just defied the odds for nothing more than a conversation.
The bus ride dragged. A wall of traffic brought everything to a crawl. Outside the window, horns blared and people in suits checked watches like it would make time move faster.
Vanessa sat in silence, scrolling through her phone. Every now and then, she glanced at the boy beside her—still catching his breath from the sprint, but visibly relaxing.
Then, out of nowhere, Vince's head gently dropped onto her shoulder.
She froze.
Brows raised, she turned slightly to see him fast asleep, face soft, mouth slightly open, completely knocked out.
"...What is this?" she muttered.
She started to shrug him off, but paused.
In her mind, she replayed the game—the way he sprinted up and down the field, how his eyes searched the crowd until they found her.
She sighed. "Only for today."
She let him be, but only for today she thought.
She returned to her phone, his head resting on her shoulder, the warm weight of it oddly grounding.
Eventually, the bus pulled to a stop. Her stop.
"Hey," she said, gently nudging his forehead. "Wake up."
Vince stirred, eyes still fogged with sleep, blinking as her face came into focus.
"Cute..." he mumbled before he could stop himself.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
"Get off me, idiot. This is our stop."
He stumbled up, rubbing his eyes as he followed her off the bus—still half-asleep, but smiling like he won the lottery.
They stepped off the bus and drifted into the maze of alleyways, moving through the city's forgotten arteries. Vince followed just behind Vanessa, hands tucked in his pockets, watching her navigate the path like muscle memory.
Eventually, they arrived at the small corner convenience store.
Vanessa slipped inside, headed straight for the window booth like she had a reserved seat there. She dropped her bag, pulled out a small sketchbook, and flipped it open without a word.
Vince wandered over to the fridge, grabbed two banana milks, and brought them back. He set one beside her.
"You always come here," he said, cracking open his drink.
"I wait for my mom to finish at the shop," she replied, not looking up. "Then we walk home together."
Vince nodded. "So that's why you didn't want me walking you back."
She glanced at him briefly. "I'd rather not have boys knowing where I live."
"But what if one of those boys becomes your boyfriend?" he asked, grinning.
She paused, then slowly raised her head and gave him a cold, flat stare.
"That will never happen."
Then she returned to her sketching.
"Damn," he said with a smirk. "Always playing hard."
Vanessa didn't respond. Just kept sketching.
He leaned on the table. "Anyway—about that bet—"
She cut him off with a raised finger.
"I won't become your girlfriend," she said.
Vince didn't flinch. "Tsk. Fine then—teach me how to draw."
That got her attention. She lifted her gaze, suspicious. "Are you messing with me again, or are you actually serious?"
"I'm serious," he said. "I don't know much about art, but when I watch you paint, it feels like I'm being pulled into your world. Like your paintings want to tell me something."
For a split second, her eyes lit up—barely—but it was there.
She closed her sketchbook and leaned forward just slightly.
"Painting isn't just putting color on canvas," she said. "It's a picture book. Every brushstroke records a memory. It captures the way a moment felt. The way the air moved. The way the light hit someone's face. You don't just draw what you see—you draw what you remember. What you want to remember."
Vince went quiet, letting her words settle.
A picture book made by hand. Not just lines or colors, but pieces of life—frozen in place.
"That's... an incredible way to put it," he said softly.
Vanessa looked down, almost embarrassed by how much she'd said.
But Vince smiled.
This was the first time he'd seen her talk like that—with fire in her voice and light in her eyes.
And suddenly, chasing her didn't feel like chasing at all.
It felt like finding something worth slowing down for.