Maya couldn't sleep. Not because of what happened—but because of what didn't. Damien hadn't approached her since the list went up. No message. No explanation. Just his name beside hers in bold, public ink.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was his way of cornering her. Or maybe, pushing her forward. Either way, she hated that it worked. Because now, all she could think about was what he had planned.
The next morning, the buzz around Talent Night was louder. Posters went up. Rehearsal slots were announced. Maya wasn't sure which was worse—people's curiosity or their assumptions.
"I heard he's painting her live."
"Nah, it's like… abstract. He won some state award last year."
"I'd kill to be on stage with Damien Cross. Seriously."
She moved through the hallway like a ghost, her gaze low. Tessa tried to distract her with small talk, but Maya was barely listening. Her mind kept looping back to the sketchbook Damien always carried. What was in it? Was her face already drawn a dozen times?
By noon, curiosity burned hotter than confusion.
She spotted Damien by the art studio doors—alone, sketchbook in hand, headphones around his neck like armor.
Against her better judgment, she walked over.
He looked up before she spoke. "You came to ask why."
Maya folded her arms. "I came to say you should've asked."
He nodded slowly, as if he'd expected that. "Would you have said yes?"
Her lips parted. "That's not the point."
He tilted his head. "Then what is?"
She hated how calm he was. Like all of this was inevitable.
"I don't want to be part of your statement," she said.
"You already are."
Maya flinched.
"You kissed me in front of half the school," he added, softer this time. "They made it a performance. I'm just giving you the stage."
She blinked, caught between frustration and… something else.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a folded paper. When he opened it, it revealed a rough sketch—her. Not from the kiss. Not from any dramatic angle. Just her sitting in the library, hair pulled back, face tilted down in thought.
"You're not a show to me," he said. "But I know how to make them look. So if they're going to stare—give them something worth watching."
She stared at the sketch, pulse unsteady. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest. Deliberate. Soft.
"I don't trust you," she said quietly.
"You don't have to," he replied. "Just show up."
Then he walked past her, disappearing into the studio.
And somehow, that conversation didn't clear anything up—it made everything worse. Because now, she didn't know if she wanted to say no… or if she wanted to be seen again.
—
Rehearsals started two days later. Maya thought she could avoid it, maybe even pull out quietly. But the signup was official. Her name printed on schedules. Posters around campus with the words Live Art Experience – Cross x Rivers in bold crimson.
It didn't matter that she hadn't consented. The school loved the pairing.
The first day of rehearsal, she almost didn't show.
She stood outside the auditorium doors, her fingers clutched around the strap of her bag like a lifeline. The sounds of movement echoed from inside—someone dragging easels, speakers clicking on, a mic feedback hum.
"You're late," Damien said from behind her.
She spun around, heart kicking up.
"You planned this," she said. "You knew I'd feel too guilty not to show."
He didn't deny it.
"Why me?" she asked.
He looked at her for a long time. "Because when you're uncomfortable, you don't pretend. You don't fake it. And when you're hurting, it shows in your posture, your hands, your face. You walk like the truth is heavy, but you carry it anyway."
Maya didn't know what to say to that.
Inside, the auditorium was still mostly empty. A single spotlight glowed at center stage. A canvas stood angled beside a tall stool—her stool.
"What exactly am I supposed to do?" she asked, keeping her voice even.
"Sit," Damien said. "Exist."
"That's it?"
"That's everything."
She stepped up slowly, unsure of herself. The stage felt too big. The light too hot.
He took his place behind the canvas, brushes set neatly beside a glass jar of water.
When he began, he didn't speak. His hand moved fast, deliberate. She watched in silence, her back straight, legs crossed, eyes drifting between his face and the empty rows of chairs that would one day be filled.
The minutes stretched.
Finally, she asked, "Why did you do it?"
His brush paused mid-stroke. "The kiss?"
She nodded.
"I don't know," he said with a half-shrug. "Impulse. Heat. Maybe I just wanted to see what he'd do."
Her eyes narrowed. "So it was about him."
Damien didn't flinch. "Logan's not used to being caught off guard."
"And I was just... convenient?"
"You were visible."
She went quiet, not because she was speechless, but because the answer didn't sting—it made sense. And that was worse.
—
The rehearsals continued daily.
And each day, she showed up.
She sat while he painted. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes he'd ask about the book she was reading. Or her favorite music. Other times, he'd just sketch her hands over and over.
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was... tense. Controlled. Measured.
One afternoon, she came in late and found a flower on her stool. A daisy. No note.
She didn't ask about it.
But the next day, she left one for him.
They never spoke of it.
It didn't mean anything. Or at least, that's what Maya told herself.
Damien didn't touch her often. But when he did—a brush of fingers against her wrist when adjusting her pose, a casual touch on her shoulder—it lingered too long. She noticed. Every time. And still… she said nothing.
By the end of the week, the whispers had changed tone.
"They're not acting, are they?"
"I heard they're always together after practice."
"I swear he looks at her like she's already his."
Maya ignored it all. Or tried to. But when Damien leaned in during a break and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with paint-stained fingers, she didn't flinch.
She didn't pull away.
But she didn't smile either.
And that meant something.
Later that night, Maya stared at herself in the mirror.
Why was she letting this happen?
She had no answers. Just questions she didn't want to say out loud.
And a rehearsal the next day she wasn't sure she wanted to miss.