Their laughter still echoed softly in Emma’s room when Mason’s voice suddenly boomed up the stairs. “Ethan! Where the hell are you?”

Ethan flinched, his hand freezing mid-doodle on the edge of Emma’s page. “Guess that’s my cue to leave,” he said with a sheepish smile.

Emma tilted her head, mock-disappointed. “Leaving already? You didn’t even finish ruining my masterpiece.”

“Trust me, I’ve done enough damage for one day.” He set the pen down and got up, brushing his hands on his jeans. “This was fun, though. You’re really talented, Emma. I’d love to talk more about this stuff, but... who knows when I’ll get to come over again. Mason’s probably going to ban me after this.”

Emma hesitated for a second before grabbing her phone off the bed. “Here,” she said, pulling up Instagram. “I post some of my stuff on here sometimes. It’s mostly bad, though.”

“Bet it’s not.” Ethan pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “What’s your handle?”

She typed it in quickly before handing it back. “You can look, but don’t laugh. The older stuff is super cringy.”

“Emma,” he said with a teasing grin, “if it’s anything like what I’ve seen today, it’s going to blow my mind.”

Emma rolled her eyes but smiled as Ethan moved to the door. “Bye, Ethan,” she said, her voice softer now.

“Bye, Emma,” he replied, glancing back one last time. She was already leaning over her sketchpad again, the faint glow of her desk lamp catching the strands of her hair. Something about the way she looked—focused, creative, completely in her own world—lingered in his chest as he stepped out.

---

Ethan barely had time to close Emma’s door behind him when Mason appeared at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “What were you doing in my sister’s room?” 

The question hit like a slap, and Ethan floundered for a response. “Uh—she was just showing me her comic,” he said quickly, trying to sound casual. “It’s really good.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “You were in there for a while.”

Emma’s door creaked open behind them, and she poked her head out. “Relax, Mason,” she said, holding up the page Ethan had doodled on. “He was just helping me brainstorm. See? He made this dumb stick figure.”

She held the paper up, smirking as Mason squinted at the comically lopsided drawing. “Wow, Ethan,” he said, unimpressed. “A true Picasso.”

Ethan laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I should probably head home now. My mom’s going to kill me if I’m late for dinner.”

Mason studied him for a moment, his suspicion lingering, but he finally shrugged. “Alright. See you later, man.”

As Ethan headed downstairs, he could feel Mason’s eyes on his back, the weight of unspoken questions hanging in the air. Whatever Mason was thinking, Ethan wasn’t sticking around to find out.

---

The cool evening air hit Ethan as he stepped outside, his steps unsteady as he walked the short distance to his house. The events of the day swirled in his mind—Mason’s teasing, the basketball game, but mostly Emma. 

He opened Instagram on his phone as he walked, pulling up her profile. It was a mix of her artwork—comics, character designs, even a few landscapes—and photos of her life. Her talent was undeniable, each piece brimming with creativity and personality. He scrolled through, pausing at a post where she’d written, “Not my best work, but trying to improve every day!” 

It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was incredible.

Ethan sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—not just the way she smiled when talking about her stories, but the way she’d sat so close to him, her knee brushing his, the soft floral scent of her hair. He hated how aware he’d been of her presence, how her confidence and maturity made it easy to forget she was only twelve. 

What’s wrong with me? he thought, shaking his head as he reached his house. He stepped inside, the quiet familiarity of his home doing little to calm the storm in his mind.

He collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Images of Emma flooded his thoughts—her laugh, her sketches, the way she’d looked at him when she said goodbye. The feelings were confusing, a tangle of admiration, respect, and something else he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

“What do I think about her?” he whispered to himself. 

He closed his eyes, turning the question over and over in his mind. Or maybe, the real question was:

“What do I feel for her?”