Tawny lounged on the edge of the bleachers, sketchbook open but pencil barely moving. The page was half-covered with a dark, swirling design—something that looked like it belonged on the cover of an indie band’s album—but her attention kept drifting back to Louis, who was pacing the court below, arms flailing as he outlined yet another “can’t-miss” idea.

“Louis, you do realize that gravity exists, right?” she drawled, not even looking up from the page. “And so do consequences. Remember consequences?”

He shot her a grin, unfazed. She shook her head, dark hair falling forward to partly hide the smirk tugging at her mouth. Tawny had gotten used to this routine: Louis with the unstoppable optimism, her with the dry commentary that was equal parts annoyed and amused.

“Look, I’m just saying,” she continued, tapping the pencil against her knee, “there’s a line between ‘spontaneous’ and ‘I’ll be explaining this to the school nurse in twenty minutes.’”

But Louis kept pushing, voice louder, arms waving wilder, and Tawny’s smirk faded. The joke wore off, replaced by that familiar tightness behind her ribs: the part of her that actually cared what happened to him, no matter how irritating he could be.

“Fine. Do whatever you want,” she snapped, closing her sketchbook with a sharp thud. “Don’t let basic survival instincts stop you.”

She swung her backpack over one shoulder, shot him one last glare—equal parts exasperated and worried—and stalked off down the bleachers, dark layers of her clothes trailing behind her.