Chapter Seventeen

AIDEN

I step into the house, the familiar sound of video game gunfire and trash talk filling the air. Nick and Tyler are sprawled on the couch, controllers in hand, their eyes glued to the massive flat-screen.

Nick is the first to notice me. He smirks, pausing the game. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Tyler barely glances at me, too focused on the screen.

“Took your sweet time, Coleman. Where you been?”

I shrug, kicking off my shoes. “Out.”

Nick scoffs. “Out? Out where?”

I hesitate. No way in hell I’m telling them I was with Solana. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but something tells me Tyler wouldn’t like it. And as much as I try to mind my own business, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the way he acts—the way people tiptoe around him when it comes to her.

“Just grabbing coffee,” I say casually, heading toward the kitchen.

Nick snickers. “Bet you were with some girl.”

I stiffen slightly, but keep my face neutral. “Nah.”

“Yeah, sure,” he drawls. “Meanwhile, we have no school for the whole week.”

I glance over my shoulder, watching as Nick leans back against the couch placing his feet on the table. Tyler just smirks, finally putting down his controller to stretch his arms over his head.

“Speaking of which,” Tyler says, his tone lazy but deliberate, “hope Solana’s home.”

I freeze for half a second before continuing toward the fridge.

Something about the way he says it doesn’t sit right with me.

It’s possessive. Confident. Like he expects her to be there waiting for him, like it’s a given.

I don’t say anything, just grab a bottle of water and take a sip, forcing myself to act normal.

Tyler yawns, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “Think I’ll head out soon. Don’t wanna keep my girl waiting.”

Nick chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. We get it. You’re whipped.”

Tyler just smirks. “Damn right.”

I grip the bottle a little tighter.

For some reason, the thought of him going home to Solana doesn’t sit right with me either.

I head straight to my art studio, needing space. Needing air.

The second I step inside, the familiar scent of paint and turpentine fills my lungs, grounding me.

I make my way to the back, to the easel I always use, the shelf where I keep my supplies. But my hands don’t reach for the paints or brushes.

Instead, they go to the cabinet beneath the shelf.

I hesitate.

For months, I’ve been keeping this painting hidden away, shoved behind canvases of half-finished landscapes and abstract pieces. No one’s seen it. No one can see it.

Not if I want to avoid trouble.

But tonight, I need to look at it.

Slowly, I pull it out.

Solana.

She stares back at me from the canvas, her expression soft but unreadable. The details are sharp—her blue eyes, the way the light catches the strands of her black hair. It’s her, down to the smallest detail.

I don’t even remember when I started it. Maybe after the first time I saw her. Maybe after the hundredth time she walked past me in class without knowing I existed.

Either way, it’s here now. Proof of something I shouldn’t even admit to myself.

I run a hand over my face, sighing.

If Tyler ever saw this—if anyone ever saw this—it wouldn’t end well.

I should destroy it.

Burn it. Rip it apart.

But instead, I just… stare.

Because despite everything—despite the risk, despite the fact that she's with someone else—

I can’t bring myself to let it go.

I sit down, still gripping the edges of the canvas like it might disappear if I let go. The soft overhead light casts shadows along the strokes of paint, bringing her face to life in a way that makes my chest tighten.

This isn’t just a painting.

It’s her.

Every delicate line, every careful brushstroke—this is the way I see her. Not the way Tyler parades her around, not the way the rest of the world expects her to be. Just her.

And it terrifies me.

I run a hand through my hair, leaning back against the stool. I don’t know why I painted her. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe it was instinct—the way an artist captures something they find beautiful without stopping to question why.

But now, staring at it, I know why I kept it hidden.

Because having feelings for someone else’s girl is one thing.

But making her your muse?

That’s something else entirely.

I should put it away. Should shove it back into the cabinet where no one will ever find it.

But instead, I reach for a brush.

Before I can stop myself, I’m adding the smallest details—the shadow beneath her jaw, the shine in her eyes, the slight part of her lips.

Bringing her to life even more.

The studio is silent except for the faint scratch of the brush against the canvas. I lose track of time, caught up in the need to perfect her. Like maybe if I get it just right, I’ll finally understand why I can’t stop thinking about her.

By the time I pull back, my chest is tight.

She looks real enough to speak. To blink up at me and ask me what the hell I’m doing.

I swallow hard.

This is dangerous.

This is so dangerous.

With a deep breath, I grab a sheet and drape it over the painting, hiding it from view.

For now.

I sit back, exhaling slowly as I stare at the sheet covering the painting. It’s still there, just beneath the fabric, haunting me.

I should put it away.

Lock it up.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, rubbing my hands together as if that’ll get rid of the restless energy buzzing under my skin.

It’s one thing to like her from a distance. To admire her in class, to steal glances when she isn’t looking. But painting her like this—keeping her image hidden away in my personal studio like some kind of secret obsession?

That’s crossing a line.

And I know it.

I groan, pushing a hand through my hair before finally standing up. My muscles are stiff from sitting too long, lost in my own thoughts. I need to do something—anything—to get my mind off this.

I grab a clean canvas and set it on the easel, forcing myself to focus on something else. Something safe. But the second my brush touches the surface, my hand hesitates.

Because all I can think about is her.

Her voice. Her laughter. Her eyes.

Her eyes.

I curse under my breath, stepping away from the easel.

I need to get out of here.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn off the lights and leave the studio, shutting the door behind me.

But even as I walk away, I can still feel it.

Still waiting. Still there.

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