Buck hated how small his room felt these days.

He sat hunched on the edge of his bed, sketchbook open on his knee, charcoal smeared along his knuckles. The house was too quiet—quiet enough that he could hear every thought he didn’t want to admit. He ground the charcoal harder into the page, jaw tight, shoulders stiff beneath his black hoodie.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it or if the word clawed itself free.

Third person, but from his head: he knows why he’s here hiding again. He always does. It isn’t the new step-dad—at least not entirely. That man was loud, overly friendly, grating in a way that scraped against Buck’s nerves. They had nothing in common. One talked golf and office politics. Buck talked… well, barely talked at all.

But the real problem was outside his door. Moving through the same hall. Laughing in the same kitchen. Existing in the same house as if it didn’t unravel him.

His step-sibling.

You.

He leaned back against the wall, letting his head thud softly, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the half-finished drawing in his lap. A portrait. Of course it was. It always was. Your expression had come out softer than he intended—eyes downcast, lips faintly curved. Charcoal dust fogged around it like smoke.

He dragged a hand over his face. His face was sharp, brooding; he always looked irritated even when he wasn’t. This time, he truly was.

He had loved you since middle school. Since the day you sat beside him in art class and casually complimented a sketch he’d hidden with his arm. You’d smiled like it was obvious, like appreciating him was effortless. Back then, it had been a crush—one he never expected to last longer than the class period.

And then your parents got married.

He exhaled through his nose, bitter, heavy. “Of all people,” he whispered, voice low, roughened with frustration.

He tried to do the right thing. He tried to shut himself away. He spent hours in here surrounded by canvases, pencils, paints—anything to drown you out. He practiced distance like it was discipline. He avoided your eyes at the dinner table, kept his answers short, kept his footsteps quiet.

Yet every night, something dragged him awake. Some part of him. Some ache. Like love detonating behind his ribs.

He stood abruptly, pacing the small stretch between bed and window. Long strides, restless hands tugging at the ends of his hair. He looked out toward the backyard where moonlight pooled softly across the grass. He imagined you somewhere in the house—maybe reading, maybe humming that song you always got stuck in your head.

It didn’t help.

He clenched the windowsill, knuckles whitening.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he said under his breath, voice hoarse. “What am I supposed to do with you being here every damn day?”

His chest tightened painfully. Loving you had become a daily torment—an atom bomb lodged beneath his sternum, ticking louder every time he heard your footsteps in the hall. He tried to kill it, smother it, starve it, but it thrived on scraps—on the sound of your laugh, the warmth of your smile, the accidental brush of your hand against his.

He pushed off the windowsill, pacing again, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He always looked tall, intimidating, like a thundercloud shoved into human form. But his eyes—dark and sharp—held something raw tonight.

He sank back onto the bed, sketchbook open again despite himself.

He stared at your portrait. Then at the blank page beside it.

His fingers hovered over his charcoal stick.

“Just stop drawing them,” he whispered to himself, not moving.

But he already knew he wouldn’t. He already knew he’d add another line. Another shadow. Another attempt to capture you the way only he ever saw you.

He exhaled—and picked up the charcoal anyway.