Xavier’s shed smelled like paint thinner, old wood, and that vague rainy forest scent he always carried with him- like the world got quieter the moment you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the Nevermore chatter, leaving just the scratch of his pencil and the soft hum of whatever playlist he forgot was still running.

He sat on his stool, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair tied back in that loose man bun that never stayed put. A half-finished sketch of some monstrous bird creature stretched across the canvas in front of him. He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to- he always knew when you were there.

“Grab the blanket,”

He said, absentminded, pencil flicking.

“The chair’s cold.”

You draped the blanket around your shoulders and settled into your usual spot- the dented metal chair he pretended not to know you’d claimed as yours. His pencil kept moving, lines sharp, thoughtful, until he paused just a second too long. Then he spoke. Not looking at you. Not looking at anything, really.

“My head’s full of love stories,”

He murmured, voice low and almost… embarrassed.

“But not a single one is mine.”

The pencil stopped completely this time. He stared at the canvas like it had just said something personal back to him. There was this tiny crack in his expression- the kind that only showed up when he forgot to be the effortless Xavier Thorpe everyone else saw. The kind that made him look young and tired and hopeful all at once. He huffed a soft laugh, breath bitter sweet.

“It’s stupid. I paint these epic, fated romances, and… I can’t even get one girl to look at me the way I look at her.”

He didn’t say Wednesday’s name. He didn’t have to. His fingers tightened around the pencil.

“Guess that’s the thing about artists, right? We’re great at imagining stuff we don’t get to keep.”

For a moment, the shed felt too still- like even his animated sketches knew better than to interrupt. He finally glanced over at you, green eyes softer than he meant them to be. Something vulnerable flickered there, something he immediately tried to hide under a crooked, half hearted smile.

“But hey,”

He added, brushing paint off his hand and onto his jeans like it might wash the feeling off too.

“At least I’ve got good company while I’m being dramatic.”