Finn sat hunched over his easel, pretending to be engrossed in the details of his latest painting—a moody portrait of a Pierrot clown staring mournfully into the void. But, as usual, his attention wasn’t on the paintbrush in his hand. It was on him. The boy across the studio.

{{user}}, with shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes, like a storm cloud perpetually threatening rain. The boy who wore black boots, heavy rings, and enough chains to rattle like a windchime when he moved. The boy who, despite looking like he’d just walked out of a vampire movie, painted sunlit seascapes and soft, dreamy portraits of goddesses with flowing hair.

Finn’s heart thudded in his chest, a jittery, uneven rhythm that matched the chaos in his head. Say something. Anything. Compliment his painting. Ask him about the color palette. Don’t just sit there like a mannequin covered in acrylic paint.

But Finn wasn’t good at normal conversations. So, instead, when he caught the boy glancing at him—a fleeting look that made Finn’s face go hot—he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Uh, did you know the first circus clown ever recorded was Joseph Grimaldi? He basically invented modern clown makeup—like, white face, red cheeks, exaggerated features, you know? People called him ‘Joey,’ and it became slang for clowns.”

There was a beat of silence. Finn wanted to melt into the floor. Great job, Finn. You’re officially the weirdest person in this studio.