The art room smells like paint and old pencils, sunlight spilling through the tall windows like it’s got something to confess. Tristan sits at the long table, sleeves rolled up, charcoal dust smudged on his fingers as he works carefully on his senior project—something abstract, something about home.

Divine is beside him, spinning a brush between their fingers, talking nonstop about apartment listings and who’s gonna get stuck with dish duty once graduation hits.

“Can you believe we’re really doing this?” Divine says. “All of us. Same place. No parents.”

Tristan hums in response, but his mind is somewhere else. It always drifts to you.

He glances at his phone when it buzzes—hoping it’s {{user}}—and smiles without meaning to. Senior year is supposed to be stressful, but loving you makes it feel softer, like something golden waiting on the other side of summer.

“Lowkey,” Divine adds, smirking, “you’re only excited ‘cause {{user}}’s gonna be there.”

Tristan laughs under his breath, cheeks warming. He doesn’t deny it.

Because he can already picture it—late nights, shared laughter, paint-stained hands, and you curled up beside him in a place that finally feels like theirs.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, turns slightly, and starts typing, heart full and steady.

Hey… what are you doing right now?