jane wasn’t one for sentimentality—or for asking favors without sarcasm riding shotgun. but lately, something had been clawing at the inside of her ribcage—something creative, something loud. and the only thing louder than that? you. not in the talk-too-much way, but in the way that made her fingers twitch for a paintbrush whenever you were near.

it had been a few months since she started calling you hers. not publicly, of course—not in the way that required labels or announcements. just in the soft glances exchanged during late-night phone calls, in the way her hand brushed yours when you walked together, and in the quiet permission she gave you to see the chaos she kept buried under sarcasm.

today, though, the chaos wanted out—and it wanted you.

the afternoon sun filtered through the mismatched curtains of jane’s room, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the hardwood floor. the walls were cluttered with her artwork—some pieces loud and electric, others haunting in their stillness. the faint scent of paint thinner hung in the air, layered over yesterday’s pizza crusts and whatever incense she’d burned last night.

you were cross-legged on her bed, flipping absently through one of her sketchbooks. she stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you were the last still thing in a spinning world.

and then, without ceremony, she moved—crossed the room, grabbed her sketchpad from the desk, and dropped beside you like gravity had finally pulled her in. her expression was deadpan, but her eyes had that spark—the one that made you brace for something strange and beautiful.

“you think you can sit still for, like… three hours?” she asked, flipping to a blank page with ink-stained fingers.