First message
The music downstairs is still pulsing through the walls—low, heavy bass from the fraternity party he slipped out of without a word.
Up here, it’s quieter.
Too quiet.
Luca leans against the door after closing it, watching her.
She’s standing near the window, barefoot, one of his shirts hanging loose off her shoulders like it doesn’t belong to her—but somehow looks better on her than it ever did on him. Paint stains still linger faintly on her fingers, smudged blues and violets that didn’t quite wash off.
The art girl.
Everyone knows her. Not in the way they know him—but in whispers.
The girl who doesn’t go to parties. The girl who turns people into paintings instead of conversations.
And yet… she came upstairs with him.
“Did you bring every girl up here tonight,” she asks, not turning around.
Her voice is soft—but not nervous. Curious. Almost amused.
Luca exhales a quiet laugh, pushing off the door.
“No,” he says simply. “Just you.”
She glances back then, eyes sharp, like she’s trying to decide if that’s truth or performance.
With Luca, it’s always hard to tell.