The bell rings, sharp and indiscriminate.
It cuts through the moment cleanly—through the soft rasp of paper sliding against paper, through the brief, unexpected alignment of two people crouched on a linoleum floor who did not plan to meet this way.
Sound rushes back in. Lockers slam. Shoes scuff. Someone laughs too loudly nearby.
Aria straightens first, careful not to step on the last sketch still at her feet. She picks it up, holding it by the edges. It's a half-finished drawing—hands again, she notices. Strong lines. Controlled pressure. A kind of attention that doesn't waste itself.
She hands it back.
"You might want to keep these closer," she says lightly. "The floor doesn't appreciate art."
For half a second, Luca looks like he's not sure how to respond—not because of the joke, but because of the way she said it. No pity. No curiosity sharp enough to cut. Just… normal.
"Yeah," he says. His voice is low, steady. "Thanks."
Their fingers brush. Not dramatic. Not charged in a way that belongs in stories. Just skin, warmth, gone too quickly to analyze.
Aria steps back, adjusting her backpack strap. "I should get to lunch before the good tables are taken."
He nods once. "Right."
She turns to go, then pauses—not because she feels pulled, but because she feels unfinished.
"Your drawings are really good," she adds, quieter now. Not a compliment thrown like a coin. One placed deliberately. "You see things."
He blinks. Something closes, then reopens behind his eyes.
"Thanks," he says again. This time, it means more.
Aria walks away without looking back.
Not because she's playing anything. Because she doesn't need to check if he's still watching.
The cafeteria is exactly what she expects: loud, crowded, aggressively social.
Aria scans the room once and spots Maya by the windows, already half turned toward the door like she's been waiting without making it obvious. Aria threads her way over, sets her tray down.
"You survived," Maya says. "Good sign."
"So far," Aria replies. "I give it another hour before something tests me."
Maya unwraps her sandwich. "That's the spirit."
They eat for a minute, comfortable enough not to fill the space with noise. Aria appreciates that. Eventually, Maya tilts her head, studying her.
"You look… thoughtful," she says. "Which usually means something happened."
"I helped someone pick up their drawings," Aria says honestly.
Maya stills. Just a fraction.
"Oh," she says. "You met Luca."
Aria takes a sip of water. "So I've gathered."
"You're calm about that."
"I don't know him well enough to be anything else."
Maya watches her for a moment, then smiles, not amused—relieved. "That's probably the healthiest response I've heard all year."
"What's the story?" Aria asks, not prying. Just opening the door.
Maya shrugs. "Depends who you ask. Most people talk about him like he's already guilty of something. No one can quite agree what."
"And you?"
"I think he keeps his head down and his walls up," Maya says. "Which people take personally for some reason."
Aria hums softly. "They usually do."
Luca doesn't eat in the cafeteria.
He sits outside, on the low brick wall near the art building, sketchbook open on his knee. He pretends to draw. Mostly, he just traces old lines with his eyes.
He keeps replaying her voice—not the words, but the lack of tension in them. She didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Didn't treat him like a warning label.
People usually do one of two things when they meet him: brace, or pretend they're not bracing.
She did neither.
That unsettles him more than suspicion ever has.
By the end of the week, Aria understands the rhythm of the school.
Who moves where. Which hallways flood between periods. Which teachers care and which perform caring. She keeps her head down without shrinking, speaks when necessary, listens when it's smarter.
She notices Luca in small, consistent ways.
He sits near the aisle. Always. He finishes his work early, then draws in the margins. Teachers leave him alone as long as he doesn't make trouble—which he doesn't.
People watch him anyway.
On Friday, their names land next to each other on the history project list.
Random, according to the teacher. The look Maya gives her says otherwise.
Luca glances at the paper, then at Aria. He doesn't assume.
"You okay with this?" he asks.
"Yes," Aria says immediately. No hesitation. "Are you?"
A pause. Then: "Yeah."
They work without friction. No posturing. No testing. When they disagree, it's quiet, efficient. He listens. She adjusts. It feels… easy. Almost deceptively so.
When the bell rings, Luca gathers his things, then stops.
"I usually work in the art room after school," he says, eyes on his sketchbook. "If you want to meet there."
Aria nods. "I do."
Not enthusiastic. Not distant. Just honest.
The art room smells like pencil shavings and dust warmed by sunlight.
Luca claims a corner table without thinking about it. Aria sits across from him, sets her bag down, takes out her notebook.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
It isn't silence as avoidance. It's silence as permission.
He sketches while thinking. She reads while listening to the scratch of graphite, the hum of the building settling for the evening. At one point, she glances up and realizes he's drawing her hands again.
She doesn't pull them away.
"They're expressive," he says, noticing her gaze. No embarrassment. No defense.
"I've been told," Aria replies. "Usually by teachers when I'm about to get in trouble."
A corner of his mouth lifts. Brief. Genuine.
The sun dips lower, light shifting across the room. Outside, voices fade as students leave.
Neither of them rushes.
For the first time since the move, Aria feels something steady take root—not comfort, not excitement.
Recognition.
And Luca, watching the way she stays exactly where she is, feels something unfamiliar loosen in his chest.
Not hope.
Something quieter.
Something that stays.