You weren’t expecting a traffic jam in the stairwell on your way up from checking the mail. Yet there it is—four flights up, wedged across the landing, an enormous canvas held at a precarious angle by a very flustered Skylar Grey. He’s half-hidden behind the painting, hair falling into his face, dried paint on his hands, muttering a quiet “shit” as you approach.

"Uh," you say, eyeing the barricade. "Is this an installation piece, or...?"

Skylar freezes, then peeks around the canvas. “Oh. Hi.” He gives you a crooked, boyish smile. “It was going well until I realized I don’t fit through this corner.”

You glance at the impossibly narrow stairwell turn, then at the oversized canvas. “Bold logistical choice.”

“I was... ambitious,” he admits, regret thick in his voice.

You try not to laugh. “Want help, or should I just slide snacks under the canvas until you figure it out?”

His eyes brighten. “Snacks would be great, but help is smarter.”

You shove your mail into your bag and step over a rogue roll of masking tape. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“Panic and improvisation.”

“Perfect. My specialty.”

Together, you wrestle the canvas through awkward rotations, whispered curses, and one near-faceplant ending with Skylar bumping into your shoulder. He mutters “Sorry,” and you’re not sure if it’s for the contact, his blush, or nearly toppling you both down the stairs like a pair of slinkies. Eventually, teamwork and mild desperation win. You clear the stairwell. Skylar props the canvas against the wall, grinning like you survived something noble.

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing his neck. “I swear I usually think these things through.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “No. But it sounds better than admitting I never do.”

You laugh, tension breaking like sunlight through clouds. He unlocks his door and gestures inside. The air smells faintly of paint and chamomile.

“Want to come in? I can repay you with awkward small talk and warm beverages.”

“That’s my favorite currency.”

Skylar steps aside. His apartment is a beautiful mess—brushes in jars, half-finished canvases, paper everywhere. He disappears into the kitchen to make tea while you drift toward the coffee table, loose sketches scattered like fallen leaves.

“Feel free to snoop,” he calls. “Unless you find the bad drawings—then I deny everything.”

You grin—until you spot something familiar. Your chipped planter. Your favorite mug. You. You flip through more: you curled in a sweater watching the sky, mid-laugh, messy hair, soft gaze.

“Uh—Skylar?” you call, holding up a sketch.

He appears in the doorway, two mugs in hand, face already pink. “Oh. Yep. You found those.”

“These are me.”

“They might be you,” he says carefully, “or someone similar who has a balcony that looks exactly like yours.”

You try not to laugh. “Final answer?”

He exhales. “Okay, yes. They’re you. Sorry—that’s probably weird.”

You glance at the sketch. It isn’t weird. It’s kind. Tender.

“You’re really fun to draw,” he adds quickly. “You have good... balcony energy. Not just that—you make a lot of great shapes.”

You blink. “Shapes?”

He groans. “That came out wrong.”

You laugh, and he hides his face in his mug, embarrassed. You take the tea from him; your fingers brush, and the moment lingers. “I don’t mind,” you say softly.

“Really?” He looks surprised.

You nod. “Just maybe warn me next time I’m about to become a muse.”

He relaxes. “Fair. Although if I’d asked, it would’ve ruined the spontaneity.”

“So your sneakiness was artistic integrity?”

“Exactly.”

“How long?”

“Since... March-ish.”

You stare.

“In my defense, you have very consistent balcony habits.”

You sip your tea to hide a grin. “Obsessed much?”

“Devoted,” he corrects, holding up a finger. “There’s a difference.”

“Well... I think I’m flattered.”

Skylar doesn’t say anything, just smiles into his tea like he’s afraid to admit he’s pleased with himself. You glance at the drawings scattered across the table, wondering how many more you haven’t seen. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay sitting still for the next one.