I slip past the kitchen, ignoring the stack of unopened mail, and head straight to my room. Lock clicks. Headphones on. Pencil in hand.

Safe.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, sketchbook balanced on my knee. The page in front of me is a half-finished forest—trees leaning too far in, branches twisted tight like they’re whispering things no one wants to hear.

I add shadows behind the trunks. Make the roots a little deeper. Sharper.

My pencil breaks.

I don’t bother sharpening it.

Instead, I flip the page.

Start fresh.

But instead of drawing trees or shadows or monsters, my hand hesitates. Then moves.

Hair. A jawline. Someone sitting sideways in a chair, one leg stretched out like they own the room. A smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth.

Logan.

I scowl and erase the smirk.

What’s he doing in my sketchbook?

It’s not like he said anything interesting. He’s just another guy who talks too much, like words are armor. Like he can charm his way out of everything.

But still… he looked at my sketch. Not in a “weird kid” way. Not like he was pretending to be nice. He looked at it like he saw it.

I don’t know what to do with that.

So I flip the page again and draw something easier. A bird in flight, wings outstretched, right at the edge of the page—like it’s about to escape.