Damien plopped onto the bench beside her, air whooshing out with the impact.
Isabelle didn't look up from her notebook. "Are you done murdering Sea of Monsters yet?"
He squinted at the sky and grinned. "Finished. Totally hooked."
She scribbled something in the margins. "So… planning to return it, or adopt it?"
There was a beat of hesitation.
Then—casually, too casually—he shrugged. "Yeah. Might pick up the next one too. So, uh—what was the turn again? That little library thingy?
Now she looked up. "You forgot already?"
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "It's not forgetting. I just… misplaced the coordinates."
Her sigh was theatrical, but the corners of her mouth curved up. "One more time. After that, you're on your own."
He bumped her shoulder lightly. "That's fair. You've already saved my life, like, twice."
He didn't really need the next book. It was about that book—the one he didn't touch. That one had been stuck in his head since he saw it.
***
It was the slow part of class at the end when nobody was paying much attention.
Damien leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk.
"Jo's late again," Damien said, voice light.
Isabelle didn't look up. "She said she had something to 'check.'"
Lilith glanced down at her sketchpad, then looked up softly. "Lately… she's been acting weird. But she's been giving me more composed pieces, so maybe it's something good."
Damien smirked. "Weirder than usual?"
"She left the cafeteria mid-lunch and told me, 'Don't follow me,'" Isabelle said, tapping her pen thoughtfully. "So yeah. Suspicious."
He grinned. "Should we be worried? Is she trying to sneak around or something?"
"Or secretly taking dance lessons," Lilith said without looking up.
Damien laughed. "Can you imagine Jo in ballet class? She'd probably knock over the barre."
Isabelle's smile twitched. "She'd probably set it on fire instead."
They snickered, then the room fell quiet.
Damien glanced at the clock. "Hey, if we finish early, could you show me that secret book cave again?"
Isabelle nodded distractedly. "Sure—if Jo shows up before six. Otherwise, I'll have to drag her and Lili to wherever she's supposed to be."
Damien shrugged. "Fair."
Lilith chuckled softly.
A few hours later, just outside the studio building, the wind had picked up. Leaves floated across the path.
Damien tugged his hoodie hood over his head, glancing around. "So, mission library?"
Joanna appeared from the side, her hair pulled back tight, cheeks flushed, and eyes lively with that familiar mix of excitement and trouble.
"There you are," Damien said, grinning.
Joanna slowed, catching her breath. "Got held up," she said, panting. "You know how it is."
Lilith and Isabelle approached from behind, walking side by side. Lilith glanced at Joanna with quiet concern, while Isabelle gave a small, knowing smile.
Isabelle called out, "Ready to head out?"
Joanna nodded, then turned to Damien. "See you later, Damy."
"Later, punk," he shot back with a mock scowl.
The group exchanged quick goodbyes.
Joanna and Lilith headed off toward the busier side of campus, while Damien and Isabelle began their walk toward the library.
They stepped inside the library together.
Isabelle carried a few books to return, placing them gently on the front desk.
Damien lingered near the shelves, his eyes scanning the spines until they landed—once again—on that familiar, worn book.
Isabelle caught the look, then the book—the same worn spine Damien's gaze kept returning to.
She said nothing. Instead, she smiled softly and whispered, "I'll be heading out. You'll be okay here?"
Damien looked up, caught her gaze, then shrugged with a lopsided grin. "Yeah, I'm fine. Unless that book suddenly jumps off the shelf and haunts me."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Right. So, I'm leaving you alone with the haunted book. No pressure."
He watched her slip away, then turned back to the quiet library—and that book.
She didn't ask what was wrong.
And he didn't thank her for not asking.
But in that brief moment—when their eyes met across the shelves—he knew she saw through the cracks.
And she let him pretend they weren't there.
Damien exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing the cover.
Still the same. A little worn at the edges. The faint watercolor sun in the corner.
Her style.
She painted this cover.
He remembered sitting beside her studio desk as she worked on it.
She'd asked him what color the sun should be—yellow or orange—and he'd insisted on both.
"Because the sun's always more than one thing," he'd said, proudly.
She laughed, kissed his forehead, and painted it exactly that way.
There was a time when his house smelled like oil paint and lavender.
Like soft steamed rice and roasted tomatoes bubbling over on the stovetop, jasmine tea on the windowsill, and the faint scent of sandalwood on his mom when she bent down to kiss his forehead.
Light poured through cotton curtains like warmed honey, spilling over half-finished canvases and paper-strewn floors.
Little socked feet would race across the polished floor, arms flung wide, and she'd catch him mid-air, laughing and spinning in the air with him.
She painted on anything that stayed still long enough—sunflowers blooming bright across the laundry door. Orange koi fish curling in motion in the bathroom corners. Murals appeared like magic while his dad was at work.
She called it "their secret garden."
He called it home.