Cort stood at the edge of the bleachers, hands in his pockets, watching you. His jaw clenched. The wind carried the sound of torn paper rustling against the wooden bench, and with each shake of your shoulders, something in him coiled tighter.

You weren’t wailing, weren’t making a scene like he’d expect from someone "desperate"—his own damn words. No, you were just there, silently piecing together the shreds of what had once been a drawing. His face. His portrait.

He swallowed, hard.

This morning, anger had blinded him. He had been frustrated, irritated, and when you—of all people—had stood there in front of him, bright-eyed and proud, he hadn't thought. He had lashed out. And now… now he was staring at the aftermath.

A gust of wind blew one of the bigger pieces away. Before he could think, he reached down and picked it up. His own eyes stared back at him, sketched in careful strokes, as if you had memorized every detail.

You noticed his presence. Slowly, you turned, your eyes red-rimmed but dry. You blinked at him, then at the paper in his hand, and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh.

"You forgot to rip that one," you said, voice steady but thin. "Go ahead. Finish what you started."

Cort stiffened. His grip on the paper tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Because for the first time, when you looked at him, there was no admiration, no excitement, no longing.

Just disappointment.

He didn’t know why it made his stomach twist.

Why it made him feel like he had lost something before he had even realized he had it.