The following Monday, the halls feel heavier than they did on Friday.
Aria notices it immediately—the way groups form quickly around lockers, how someone's laugh can carry gossip before it's even fully thought. She walks steadily, backpack snug, headphones tucked away but ready if she needs to disappear into music later.
She doesn't flinch. Not even when she hears:
"…did you see him with her?"
"…she's not scared of Luca, can you believe it?"
She keeps walking. Keeps her pace measured. Keeps her head high.
Maya catches up at the biology lab door.
"You're… calm," Maya says, half incredulous, half approving. "Seriously, most people look like they're about to perform CPR on their social lives."
Aria smirks faintly. "I observe. I don't react unless it matters."
Maya tilts her head. "Fair. That works… until it doesn't."
Aria doesn't answer. She never promises tomorrow.
The room smells faintly of antiseptic and chalk dust. Aria chooses a middle desk—close enough to observe the group dynamics, far enough to avoid confrontation. She notices Luca immediately, sitting two rows ahead near the aisle, sketchbook under his arm. Not drawing yet. Observing. Listening. Calculating in that quiet way he does.
When he glances up, their eyes meet briefly. She does not flinch. She does not smile. She acknowledges him with a small tilt of her head—mutual respect in a gesture shorter than a sentence.
The teacher begins lab introductions. Aria listens carefully, filing away names, seating patterns, and who tends to dominate group work.
When it's over, she gathers her things and finds a note slipped under her notebook.
Meet me after class. —L
No signature, just a single initial.
Aria exits into the sunlight, scanning the courtyard. Luca is leaning casually against the brick wall by the art building, sketchbook open on his knee. He doesn't wave. Doesn't call. Doesn't expect her. He simply waits.
Aria approaches quietly.
"You left a note," she says.
"Didn't want to yell across the room," he says. No trace of arrogance, just matter-of-fact. "Figured you'd read it."
She sits beside him. Close enough for the warmth of the stone wall between them to be shared. He flips open the sketchbook.
"I sketched the lab," he says quietly. Not a request for approval, just observation.
She leans slightly closer, curious. His lines are deliberate, thoughtful. Even in black-and-white pencil, there's depth. Accuracy. An attention to detail she recognizes.
"You see things," she says softly, not teasing. Not praising. Just stating.
"Just what's there," he replies. His eyes flick up briefly to hers. Steady. Honest.
For a long moment, neither speaks.
Then he asks, quietly: "You like it?"
"Like…?" she prompts.
"The sketch. The lab. My work."
She studies the lines. "It's precise. Observant. Careful. You notice more than most people do."
He doesn't answer verbally. Only a subtle nod, just enough for her to feel acknowledgment.
Aria realizes something quietly important: trust isn't a thing he gives easily. And yet, right now, in this simple sharing of space, he is giving it—without words, without declaration.
It's enough.
The sunlight shifts over the courtyard. Leaves flutter. Students pass in patterns she could catalog, but she doesn't. She doesn't need to.
Luca's sketchbook rests between them, a fragile bridge of understanding. And for the first time since she arrived, Aria feels the slow pulse of connection that doesn't need drama or noise to exist.