Ayden's sketchbook sat open, untouched, beside his sewing machine. He was staring—not at the fabric, but at the man across from him.
Luca.
He'd changed.
It wasn't just the way he worked. His sleeves were rolled up, arms inked with fine script, jaw flexing when he concentrated. But it was the stillness, the focus. He was serious now. Ayden didn't like that. It meant Luca was getting closer to being good—too good.
"Do you always look at people like you want to dissect them?" Luca asked, not looking up.
"I look at flaws," Ayden replied.
"Oh?" Luca straightened. "Find any in me yet?"
Ayden's eyes flicked from his collarbone to his hands.
"Plenty," he said tightly. "You smile too much. Your seams are sloppy when you rush. And you let people in too easily."
Luca smiled. "So you've been paying attention."
They didn't speak again for an hour. But tension curled around them like thread pulled taut — silent, invisible, dangerously close to snapping.
The next day, Ayden arrived early.
Luca was already there.
Barefoot, with earbuds in, dancing alone as he pinned fabric to a mannequin. Ayden paused at the doorway. He'd never seen someone so free.
Luca turned, caught him watching.
"You dance?" Luca asked.
Ayden blinked. "No."
Luca stepped closer. "Shame. Bet you'd be all grace and no heart."
Ayden opened his mouth to reply — but Luca pressed a headphone to his ear.
The beat thrummed into Ayden's chest, loud, messy, alive. For a second, he stood there, listening. Then he turned and walked to his desk.
But something inside him shifted.
That evening, Ayden stayed late again. Alone.
Only he wasn't.
He found a note on his desk in Luca's messy scrawl:
"You don't have to always be alone to be brilliant.
I see you.
Even when you hide."
— L.
Ayden closed his eyes.
And for the first time in years, he didn't know how to keep the walls up.