They stepped into his room. Soft light filtered through the half-open curtain. A bookshelf. A couple of posters — one with space, one with an old rock band. A desk — unusually, almost suspiciously tidy.

 Marisa looked around, then glanced at Nick.

 “Wow… your room is bigger than my whole apartment.”

 “I wasn’t lying when I said there’d be plenty of space,” he joked, trying to sound casual.

 She nodded, trying not to show how impressed she actually was. And then she noticed something in the corner.

 A keyboard.  Covered neatly with a cloth, headphones resting beside it. Quiet, simple… but very personal.

 “Oh, is that your…?” Her voice slipped out faster than her thoughts. “Can you play something?”

 Nick followed her gaze — and instantly froze. His fingers curled into a fist like he was bracing for impact.

 “Uh… yeah. It’s mine. I play sometimes. But not, like… professionally.”

 “So?” she said softly. “I didn’t come here to judge.”

 She smiled — and something in her tone was different this time. Not just curiosity. Something closer to… admiration.

 And that almost broke him. Nick cleared his throat and quickly changed the topic.

 “Okay, uh—markers on the right, clean paper here, tea according to schedule, and Millie is locked out so she doesn’t run between the chairs.”

He spoke too fast. Trying to get his heartbeat under control.

 Marisa only smiled. Again. But this time — a little longer.

 She plugged the flash drive into his laptop and opened the first file.

“Alright. Option one — classic. White background, bright title, 3D letters, a bit of glitter. All the stars and guitars where they belong.”

Nick nodded.

“Pretty. But something’s missing.”

She clicked the second one.

 “Here it’s more stylized — dark background, neon frame, light accents because… well, it’s ‘Show Your Light,’ right?”

 “That one’s interesting. Very your style.”

 “And the last one.”

She opened the third file.

Silence.

 A deep midnight-blue background. A single figure with a microphone standing against a quiet stage. Soft warm lights spreading behind like slow sunrise.And at the top — only a line: 

Show Your Light because everyone carries their own star system.

 “Oh…” was all Nick managed.

 “This one?”

 “This one,” he confirmed. “It’s… not just about the show. It’s about… people.”

 “I thought you’d say it’s ‘about you,’” she teased.

 “Maybe next time,” Nick replied.

 And they both laughed.

 She unfolded the poster sketches. Everything looked… refined. Clean lines, a balanced layout, nothing extra. Only energy, shaped into art.

 Nick approved all of it immediately — not because he had nothing to say, but because it was already perfect.

 “I’ll start then,” she said, pulling out her pencils.

 “And I’ll… print the flyers. At least one thing today should turn out not crooked.”

 They settled into place: she on the floor with the big sheet of paper, he at the desk with the laptop and printer beside a small lamp glowing softly, like a flashlight inside a tent.

 Zzzzrrrrr… the printer spat out the first page.

 “Hey,” Nick said as she drew without lifting her head, “those glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling… I put them up myself.”

 “Oh yeah? And which one of us has the better artistic taste now?”

 “I didn’t mean the design. They glow at night. I can’t sleep until all of them light up.”

 “So you wait for the whole galaxy to boot up?”

 “Exactly.”

 They exchanged a glance. Simple words — but something warm passed between them.

 “So why Millie?” she asked.

 “My mom wanted to name her Peach. I refused. We compromised on Millie — like ‘mini million of joy.’”

 “And you still think you’re bad at naming things?”

 He smiled. She went on drawing. The printer quieted, the flyers stacked neatly on the desk, and Nick… simply sat there.

 Elbow on the table, he silently watched Marisa sketch her first lines. Her movements were steady, unhurried. She wasn’t rushing, wasn’t second-guessing — she allowed herself time.

 Every line had weight. Every stroke felt like a breath.

And Nick realized he didn’t want her to stop. Didn’t want this moment to end. He liked seeing her focused, calm, fully in her element.

 Maybe this is what it means to really like someone, he thought. When just sitting next to them… already feels enough.

 When the sketch was finished, Marisa let out a soft breath and finally lifted her eyes from the paper.

 “Okay. Ready for color.”

 She nodded toward the box of markers.

“Pick your tools, assistant,” she said with a tiny smile.

 “Me…?” Nick blinked. “Oh, so I’ve been promoted? From ‘Printer Guy’ to ‘Color Specialist’?”

 “Congratulations. Just don’t mix up pink and red again. I still have nightmares from that drawing.”

 “That was stylistic, thank you very much,” he muttered, handing her the markers she needed.

 They laughed, glanced at each other. He passed colors, she filled shapes. Time didn’t rush — it drifted, leaving behind the soft scent of markers, the whisper of paper, and a warm glow between them.

 Marisa stretched a little, set one marker aside.

 “Alright. If you want a job — here’s a job.”

 She pulled out a green and a red marker and placed them in Nick’s hands.

 “Green for the leaves. Red for that flower. Think you can handle it?”

 “A flower?” he repeated.

 “Yes. A flower is serious business.”

 He took the green dramatically, setting the red aside for later. He colored the leaves slowly, carefully — like a kid trying not to mess up a picture for the fridge.

 Marisa kept drawing — quiet, focused. The silence between them was warm, filled with color and paper and something unspoken.

 When Nick finished the leaves, he said:

 “Well… time for the big flower.”

 He reached for the red marker — gently, like it was something important. And in that exact second... Her hand moved to the same spot. She wasn’t even looking. Just reaching.

 And instead of the marker...her fingers closed around his. For one second, something clicked in the air.

 And time stopped. 

Her fingertips brushed his. Soft. Accidental.

And something that should’ve been a nothing moment turned into a spark.

 A storm. A flash. Lightning. Electricity. All inside two square centimeters of space.

 She froze.

 He didn’t breathe.

 Their eyes met — a heartbeat longer than they should have. Long enough to say everything without a single word.

 “Oh…” she whispered, barely audible. “I… thought… I just needed the marker.”

 “I did too,” Nick replied, voice low, not letting go right away.

 But a second later, they both looked away. Her fingers slid gently free. 

She took the real red marker and returned to the drawing in silence.

 He sat there with his open hand, still feeling the ghost of her touch — as if something warm had stayed there. Something he didn’t want to lose.

When the red marker returned to the rotation, Nick — trying desperately to hide the chaos inside him — reached for his phone. 

“Wanna put on some music?” he asked casually.

 “Yeah,” Marisa replied, still focused on the flower.

 Nick opened his playlist and hit play on One Direction.

 The song started with the same familiar chords — from that night at the bus stop, from that evening when things quietly shifted for both of them.

 Marisa lifted her head. Looked at him.

 He didn’t say anything. Just gave a small shrug — I remember.

 She smiled. She appreciated it.

 They kept coloring to the music. Sang along. Laughed when Nick completely butchered the high note. The poster slowly came alive in front of them — bright, warm, real. Just like the day they were spending together.

 And when the final line was drawn, they high-fived.

 “We did it!” they said at the same time.

 And in that victorious moment…

 Buuuuuuurrrrrrr.

 Marisa’s stomach decided to join the performance. She folded into a tiny embarrassed cocoon.

 “Oh my god… sorry. That was… loud.”

 “That was the call of lunchtime,” Nick said seriously. “And we heard it. Come on. Mom made something really good.”

 “What exactly?”

 “I’m pretty sure I heard her talking about homemade pizza with mozzarella, arugula, sun-dried tomatoes, and — wait for it — her signature lemon tart that ‘doesn’t look like she’s trying to impress anyone, but still does.’”

 “That… sounds like something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

 “And no mac ’n’ cheese. I checked personally.”

 “Then I’m definitely going.”

 They stood up — the poster stayed on the desk to dry, One Direction was still playing softly in the background. But they were already heading to the kitchen — to someplace warm and very… right.

The kitchen in Nick’s house was bright — wooden table, big window, and a soft smell of basil floating in the air. Millie was already sitting under the table like a professional crumb inspector.

On the plates: thin-crust pizza with stretchy mozzarella, arugula, and sun-dried tomatoes that tasted like little fireworks.

Marisa knew from the first bite — this wasn’t just food. It felt like safety.

 “I could live on this pizza,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

 “You know what’s funny?” Nick lifted an eyebrow. “My mom always says this pizza ‘never turns out right.’ And every single time she makes it better than before.”

 Marisa smiled and reached for another slice.

 “So, what’s your favorite dish?” she asked between bites.

“Carbonara. But not with cream. Only the real version — eggs, cheese, bacon. I… might be a little obsessed,” he admitted, cheeks warming.

 “Mhm. Strict.”

 “Food has to be honest.”

 “Just like people,” she added.

 Nick fell quiet for a second — that simple line hit deeper than he expected.

 The conversation wandered on — soft, easy, warm like a cup of tea.

 They talked about childhood. First hobbies. Old school events that once felt more important than national elections.

 Nick’s mom sometimes added a comment from the stove. Millie whined whenever she missed a crumb. And everything felt right in a way that didn’t need explaining.

 Sunlight slipped through the curtains, leaving golden patches on the table.

 And then Nick looked up, out the window — and something clicked.

 “Hey… wanna go outside?” he said. “We can walk Millie. And a little fresh air won’t hurt us either.”

They walked slowly, not in a hurry. Marisa tossed the ball for Millie now and then, and Nick watched how the sunlight slipped through the leaves overhead.

 The conversation faded — not because they had nothing to say, but because walking side by side was already enough. Sometimes silence says more.

 “The weather’s perfect today,” Marisa said quietly. “Like someone ordered it.”

 “Maybe someone did,” Nick replied, nudging a small stone with his shoe. “Some people just… don’t admit it.”

 She smiled.

 “So you’re a philosopher now?”

 “Today I’m just… tired of pretending I’m not happy you’re here.”

 Her smile grew a little — soft, careful, but real.

Millie suddenly dashed forward and disappeared into the bushes.

 “She probably found another ‘emergency,’” Nick joked, following her.

 Marisa stepped closer — and stopped when she saw Nick straighten up with something in his hand.

 “What is it?” she asked.

 “Nothing, just…”

He held up a tiny daisy he must’ve picked when he bent down for Millie.He hesitated for a moment, then simply held it out to her.

 “This is… for you. Just because.”

 “Just because?”

 “Yeah. Just because.”

 “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was small, almost surprised. “You know… no one’s ever given me flowers before.”

“Really? Not even...” He cut himself off. He didn’t want to bring up anything from her “before.” It wasn’t the moment.

 “Not even,” she confirmed, smiling again — warm, without pity, just honest.

 She took the daisy, turned it between her fingers for a second.  And then they kept walking.

 Her hand stayed close to his. It didn’t touch — not yet. And somehow… that felt right, too.