He was in your art class.

And he was all you wanted.

Well… maybe not all, but most.

You took up art as an extra class in junior year. You were artsy enough—good at sketches, doodles in the margins of your notebooks, the occasional charcoal drawing your mom would stick on the fridge. But the real reason you looked forward to this class wasn’t the art. It was him.

The most tortured-looking guy you’d ever fucking seen.

His name was Jezebel—(see, even his name was hot)—but he went by Jessie. He had this heavy, tired look about him, like sleep was something he owed money on and would never catch up. Dark eye bags sat like bruises under his eyes, and he always wore the same grey hoodie that somehow managed to smell like cinnamon.

Jessie wasn’t shy. Not exactly. He didn’t blush or look away when you caught his eyes, didn’t stammer or shift uncomfortably. He just… didn’t waste words. He wasn’t flirty, wasn’t chatty. Just a quiet storm that kept to himself.

You’d noticed he always ate lunch alone. Always. People had their little theories—muttered in passing, not brave enough to say to his face.

“Dude’s weird.” “Bet he writes poetry and cries to The Cure.” “I heard he got suspended last year for fighting.” “Or maybe drugs.” “Whatever. He’s hot, though.”

But none of it seemed to stick to him. He just drew.

Today in art, the teacher clapped her hands for attention.

“Alright, everyone. We’re starting a new project. Pair work this time.”

A couple of groans went up, someone muttered, “Group projects again?” but most people just kept shuffling their papers and sketchbooks.

The teacher continued, “You’ll be creating a piece together. It can be a painting, a sculpture, a mixed-media piece—whatever you choose. But it has to represent a theme. I’ll be assigning partners at random, so don’t even think about trying to stick with your best friends.”

Your stomach sank. Random meant there was a chance. A dangerous chance.

Names were called out. “Dani and Mark.” “Sarah and Leah.” “Kyle and Devon.”

Then: “Jessie and—”

Your name.

Your ears warmed. One or two kids glanced your way, eyebrows raised, and a quiet laugh flickered from the back corner. Nothing huge, just enough to notice.

“RIP,” someone muttered under their breath, not even looking up from their desk.

Jessie didn’t react. He just shifted his sketchbook off his lap and glanced at you, eyes shadowed under his hood. Like it was nothing.

“Alright, find your partner and start brainstorming. I want ideas by the end of class,” the teacher said, moving on.

You gathered your things and slid your stool closer to him.

For a second, it was quiet, just the scrape of your chair legs against the floor. Then Jessie’s voice—low, rough—broke it.

“So. What do you wanna do?”

Not cold. Not warm either. Just steady.

You blinked, then managed, “I dunno. Theme’s pretty open. What about you?”

He shrugged, twirling his pencil between his fingers. “Doesn’t matter. Just don’t want it to look stupid.”

From the back, someone whispered—half-amused, half-dismissive—“Bet he makes it all emo.”

This time, Jessie’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look up. He just kept his eyes on you, waiting for your answer.