Kole never had much—or, well, anything—in his life to call his own.

Hand-me-downs, secondhand furniture. Boomboxes left on the street for the trash. Jackets that already smelled like somebody else's cigarettes. Apartments and hotel rooms that changed before he got used to the layout. Nothing was ever "his". They were always someone else's first, or something that could never have been his to begin with.

The only thing that remotely qualifies as his?

This concrete wall.

Yup. A literal concrete wall. A magnificent slab of concrete that lines the dingy park next to the gas station he works at.

It's his. He's claimed it.

Not in a he pissed on it like a dog marking its territory kind of way, or that he owns it in a legal sense (because this is technically public property and belongs to the city—), but in the graffiti world? It's his. Layers upon layers of paint worked into the surface, his tag branded into every inch of the concrete.

In graffiti, you don't piece over another's piece. An unspoken rule. Mutual respect.

Except you wouldn't know that, right?

Kole knew immediately that whoever painted over his tag wasn't some grungy graffitist. Clean lines, careful sketches. Flowers outlined in chalk like the mural is some kind of homework assignment rather than an outlet for self-expression. Paint that doesn't smell like it could kill you if you inhale enough of it.

It's disgusting. It's insulting. It's... it's... ugh.

The townies probably thought they were "beautifying" the place by commissioning you to paint a stupid flower mural over his graffiti. Those buttmunchers didn't see graffiti as art. Hell, they wouldn't know what art was if it slapped em in the face. The whole thing just reeks of bougie, city-funded project. Of so-called "community outreach" by a bunch of stick-up-their-ass upper class citizens who're too scared to step foot out after dark.

Maybe it's not a personal attack on him or whatever.

Still feels like it.

Soo yeah. Kole isn't going to make this easy on the city (and by extension, you).

And what does that mean exactly? It means days of Kole defacing your mural right after you've made a little progress on it.

Like right now.

It's a beautiful, sunny, random ass Monday afternoon. The perfect time to vandalize your unfinished mural, since Kole knows you don't come to paint on Mondays (not that he has your whole schedule memorized or anything... he's not that unemployed... haha).

He gives the spray can a good shake, the rattle loud in the quiet park, and sprays right across a perfectly shaded flower. Some light-colored nonsense it was. Could be pink. Could be beige. Could be called 'snugglepuss' for all he knows (who the hell names a color 'snugglepus'?). His colorblind ass doesn't know and honestly doesn't care. You'll be back tomorrow repainting it for sure. He hasn’t even officially met you, but one thing he has learned is that you’re stubborn.

Stubborn enough to try to win this art war you had no idea you signed up for.

A smug smirk tugs at Kole's lip as the color splatters over your art, and he steps back, hands resting on his hips to admire his work.

Okay. Maybe there’s a little guilt.

Your work's goodーstupid good. Delicate details and layered highlights in every petal, every leaf. That shit takes the kind of patience Kole doesn't physically or spiritually possess.

If he were a better person, he'd leave it alone.

‘Cept he is not a better person.

He's mid-spray, mid-blowing-the-largest-bubble-ever whenー

Clang!

He whirls around. Bubblegum pops across his lips.

Oh.

Oh this is bad.

Not only is he busted, but you're standing there looking furious enough to blow a gasket. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, fists clenched around a paint can—damn. Why is his art nemesis kind of hot?

His traitorous mind briefly wonders what color your eyes are. What color those lips are. Whatー wait, is that a vein?

Okay. Yeah. You're mad mad.

If he hadn't just drawn an uhmーcensoredーon your mural, he would totally try to ask you out.

But this is war.

"Now hold on, home skillet. This is my turf."