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Monday mornings at Brookstone High were always the same—hallways buzzing with half-hearted energy, the scent of over-brewed coffee in travel mugs, and the faint echo of weekend gossip clinging to every locker. But for Lena Carter, this particular morning felt different.
It had only been two days since the open mic night, but the memory of it still felt fresh—warmth curling inside her every time she remembered how Jace had looked at her under the amber lights. The way his fingers had laced with hers on the walk home. The unspoken, fragile truth that something between them had shifted.
Lena walked into school with her sketchpad hugged to her chest, headphones in, playlist on shuffle. It was her usual armor—but today, it wasn't to shut people out. It was to contain everything stirring inside her.
She reached her locker and froze. Jace was already there, leaning against it casually, arms crossed, his earbuds in. He pulled one out when he saw her.
"I brought coffee. I figured Mondays are the worst," he said, holding out a second cup.
Lena blinked, taken off guard. "You bought me coffee?"
"Don't make it weird," he teased. "It's not a grand romantic gesture. It's just… caffeine-fueled survival."
Lena took the cup, grinning. "Thanks. And I never said it was romantic."
Jace leaned a little closer, eyes glinting. "But it could be."
She rolled her eyes, flustered. "You're so full of yourself."
"And you love it."
She didn't reply, but the smile lingering on her face said enough.
Classes passed in a blur, each period marked by a growing tension neither of them knew how to navigate in the public eye. Whispers trailed them now, more persistent than before. People were noticing—not just the obvious things, like Jace waiting at Lena's locker or how often they sat together at lunch—but the subtler moments, too. How their eyes found each other across classrooms. How Jace's sharp edges seemed to soften when she was near.
By the time they reached lunch, it was impossible to ignore. Their usual spot under the tree felt oddly exposed. Instead of silence and the usual comfort, Lena could feel the eyes. People passing by. Watching. Whispering.
"You wanna skip this?" Jace asked, nodding toward the lunch crowd. "Go somewhere else?"
"Where?" she asked.
He thought for a moment. "The music room's free during this period. No one ever goes in there except after school."
Lena hesitated only a second. "Let's go."
The music room was dimly lit, lined with instruments and old acoustic panels. Jace locked the door behind them, and for a second, they both just stood there, taking in the stillness.
"I used to sneak in here last year," he said, moving to the piano. "Play whatever came to mind. It was the one place where I could breathe."
Lena wandered to a music stand with scattered sheet music. "Didn't peg you for a piano guy."
"I'm full of surprises."
He played a few soft chords, the room filling with gentle sound. Lena sat on the floor against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her, listening.
"I liked the song you played Friday," she said. "It sounded… honest."
"That's because it was." He glanced back at her. "You ever feel like the only way to really say something is through what you create?"
"All the time." Lena traced a finger along the edge of her sketchpad. "Sometimes I think I speak better in charcoal than I do with words."
Jace turned on the bench to face her fully. "Then show me."
She blinked. "What?"
"Your art. Show me something that says what you're feeling. Right now."
Lena hesitated, then slowly opened her sketchpad. Page after page flipped by—portraits of faceless figures, abstract shadows, fragments of dreams. Finally, she stopped at a piece she hadn't meant to show anyone.
It was a rough sketch of the open mic night. A figure standing under soft light, guitar in hand, head slightly bowed. And behind him, a second figure—eyes wide, watching.
Jace stared at it for a long moment. "Is that… me?"
"And me," she admitted, voice low.
He walked over, knelt beside her. "It's beautiful. You're incredible, Lena."
She looked at him, his voice too sincere, too close. "It's not perfect."
"Nothing worth feeling ever is."
The silence that followed was heavy with tension. Jace's hand hovered near hers, not quite touching. When their fingers brushed, neither pulled away.
Then came the knock.
"Hey! Anyone in there?"
They sprang apart like firecrackers.
Mr. Talbot, the music teacher, peered through the small window on the door, looking mildly confused. Jace scrambled up to unlock it.
"Didn't know this room was booked," Talbot said, walking in with a stack of choir folders.
"Sorry," Jace muttered. "We were just…"
"Playing music," Lena added quickly.
Talbot gave a vague nod and set his folders on the piano. "Try not to lock the door next time. Safety policy."
They exited the room with awkward, half-laughs, the closeness from before already fading under the weight of embarrassment.
Back in the hallway, Lena could barely meet Jace's eyes. "That was—"
"Yeah. Weird timing."
But there was something else there, too. A glimmer of something unfinished.
They parted ways for the rest of the day, the tension stretching between them like an unplayed chord.
That night, Lena lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed.
**\[9:13 PM — Jace Rivera]**
"Still thinking about the music room."
**\[9:14 PM — Lena Carter]**
"Me too."
**\[9:15 PM — Jace Rivera]**
"Next time, I won't let the moment pass."
Lena didn't reply right away. Instead, she stared at the words, her heart thudding against her ribs.
After a while, she typed slowly:
**\[9:29 PM — Lena Carter]**
"Next time, I won't either."
---
** Before the Storm (Part 2)**
Tuesday arrived dressed in silver rain, the kind that turned the schoolyard into a glossy mirror and made every hallway smell faintly of wet concrete and old sweatshirts. Lena Carter stood beneath the overhang outside Brookstone's front entrance, hoodie drawn over her headphones, pretending not to be scanning the parking lot.
But she was.
And when the black Civic pulled in—Jace at the wheel, one hand on the steering and the other brushing the condensation off his window—her stomach flipped with that familiar, unnamable feeling.
He spotted her before she could look away, gave a tiny wave through the window. Lena lifted her chin in return, casual, unaffected. Or at least, trying to be.
Inside, the school was alive with movement, but muffled. Like everyone had slipped beneath the same dampened mood. Classes blurred. Notes filled margins. Raindrops marched down windows in delicate processions.
Lena sat in history class, her sketchpad open beside her textbook, only half listening as Mr. Klavan lectured about the Treaty of Versailles. She'd been drawing without realizing it—soft lines, barely-there shadows, two silhouettes standing in a doorway. One with messy hair and headphones. The other with sharp cheekbones and a guitar slung over his back.
The door creaked open. Jace walked in, five minutes late and unapologetic as usual. His hoodie was soaked, and his hair clung to his forehead in dripping waves.
He dropped into the seat beside her. "Miss me?"
"You're wet," Lena muttered, tugging her sketchpad over the drawing before he could see.
He leaned toward her. "You're avoiding eye contact."
"I'm taking notes."
"You're drawing again."
She side-eyed him, lips twitching. "You're annoying again."
"Balance," he said with a shrug. "You bring the sass. I bring the charm."
Mr. Klavan cleared his throat. "Mr. Rivera, if you'd like to charm Ms. Carter further, perhaps do so without disrupting the Treaty of Versailles."
A few chuckles rippled through the class.
Jace held up his hands. "All due respect to the Treaty."
Lena ducked her head, grinning despite herself.
---
The storm outside didn't let up.
By lunch, the grassy field had turned to mud, and their tree—*their* spot—was soaked. Jace met her outside the cafeteria, plastic bag in hand, holding it like a prize.
"What's that?" Lena asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Two sandwiches. A bag of chips. And a bottle of root beer," he said. "Come on."
"Where are we even going?"
He didn't answer, just led her through the halls like a man with a mission. Past the math wing, past the senior lockers, until they reached the stairwell to the old auditorium.
"We're not allowed in there," Lena said, glancing around.
"That ever stopped me before?"
He pushed the door open, and they stepped into the dim, echoing space. The seats were dusty, the stage half-lit by the flicker of emergency lights. Lena had only been in here once, during freshman orientation. It felt like stepping into a forgotten world.
Jace climbed the stage stairs and sat on the edge, feet dangling. He patted the spot beside him. "Come on, rebel. Live a little."
She hesitated… then joined him.
He opened the bag, handed her one of the sandwiches, and cracked the root beer. They ate in silence for a moment, the storm a distant hum beyond the walls.
"You ever feel like everything's too loud sometimes?" he asked.
"All the time."
"And then you find a place like this," he said, glancing around. "And it's like you can finally hear yourself think."
Lena nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like the world stops spinning for a minute."
They sat together, shoulder to shoulder. Not touching. Not needing to. Something about the silence between them felt louder than any conversation.
After a while, Jace pulled out his phone and scrolled through his playlist. "You still haven't shown me your favorite song."
"You never asked," she said.
"I'm asking now."
She hesitated, then took his phone, fingers scrolling slowly. She landed on a track—soft piano, slow build, no lyrics. Just aching, quiet beauty.
"'Stillness' by Novo Amor," she said, handing the phone back. "My mom used to play it when I couldn't sleep."
He listened with her. Eyes closed. Music filling the dark.
When the song ended, neither spoke. And Lena knew, then—*really* knew—that it wasn't just flirtation anymore. Not some passing thing between rivals. This was something careful. Growing. Breathing.
"I like your quiet," Jace said finally. "It makes me feel like I don't have to pretend."
She turned to him. "Pretend to be what?"
"Anything I'm not."
Lena stared at him, heart thudding in her ears. The space between them felt thinner than it ever had.
"I should go," she said suddenly, standing.
"Yeah," he said, standing too. "Probably."
But neither moved toward the door.
"I don't know what this is," she admitted.
"Me neither."
There was a pause.
Then—quiet, barely a breath—he said, "But I don't want it to stop."
Lena's heart caught.
"I don't either."
And just like that, something settled between them. A truth neither had to say again.
---
By the time they left the auditorium, the rain had stopped.
The world looked new—wet and glistening, like someone had rinsed off the noise.
They walked slowly through the back halls toward the art wing. Lena had painting after school. Jace had band. Their usual rhythm. But now, the air between them buzzed with the weight of things unspoken.
Outside the art room, she paused.
He touched her wrist, just briefly.
"See you after?"
"Yeah," she said. "See you."
Inside, the art room was warm, filled with the scent of paint and clay. Lena settled at her easel, pulled out her brushes, and dipped into soft pastels.
She wasn't sure what she was painting. Only that the colors felt right. Warm. Soft. Quiet.
Halfway through, Mr. Moreno walked by and paused.
"New palette for you," he said. "Lighter than usual."
Lena blinked, looking at the canvas. He was right.
She hadn't even realized.
After class, she stepped out into the cool dusk. The air smelled like wet leaves. Jace was waiting near the bike racks, hoodie pulled up, tapping out something on his phone.
She walked up beside him.
"Hey."
He looked up. "Hey."
They didn't talk much on the way home. But they didn't need to. Every step said what words couldn't.
At her door, she hesitated.
"You wanna come in?" she asked, surprising herself.
He blinked. "Are your parents home?"
"No. Not till six."
Jace hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Sure."
Inside, the apartment smelled like lavender and books. Lena's mom always lit the same candle after work. It still lingered.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes. Jace stood in the entryway, unsure.
"You can sit," she said.
He sat on the couch, hands in his lap.
She joined him.
For a long moment, they just… were.
Then he looked at her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you stop talking to people last year? You used to be louder. Not like, obnoxious—but more open."
Lena stiffened. "Who told you that?"
"No one had to. I've been watching you for a long time, Carter."
She frowned. "That's… unsettling."
He laughed softly. "I mean it. You changed. Something happened."
She looked away. "It's stupid."
"Try me."
She swallowed. "It was my dad. He left. Like, one day he was there, and the next… he wasn't."
Jace's face softened. "I didn't know."
"People started treating me like glass. Whispering. Avoiding. I just figured… maybe if I was quiet, they'd stop."
Jace didn't say anything for a long time.
Then he reached over, took her hand.
"I'm sorry."
Lena nodded, staring at their joined hands.
"You're not glass," he said. "You're steel with a quiet edge."
Her eyes flicked to his.
"Jace…"
"I know," he said. "We don't have to name it."
And they didn't.
Because sometimes, things didn't need labels. Not yet.
Sometimes, they just needed time to grow.
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