I flip open my new sketchbook, the first page crisp and untouched. Theo’s gaze flicks to it, curiosity sparking in his eyes. Holding his stare, I press my pencil to the page and ruin it—sharp, careless scribbles cutting through the perfection.

His expression shifts from confusion to full-blown horror.

“Uh, Selene—what are you—” He stops mid-sentence, eyes flicking up to mine. When he catches the grin on my face, realization dawns.

I can’t hold back my laugh, tilting the sketchbook so he can see the mess I’ve made. “It’s a trick my sister taught me,” I explain. “You ruin the first page so you don’t get caught up in making everything perfect.”

Theo exhales like I’ve just personally offended him. “That’s the dumbest—” He pauses, eyes narrowing in consideration. “Actually… that makes a weird amount of sense.”

I smirk. “Right? Now you can stop looking at me like I just committed a crime.”

He shakes his head, still eyeing the page like it’s physically painful for him, but a smile tugs at his lips.

“But you’re going to draw me, aren’t you? Please say yes.”

“First of all, I never said I would. Second, I highly doubt you can sit still for five minutes.”

He stretches out, leaning back on his hands. “I’ll do my best. Just—maybe don’t make me look too serious. And, uh…” He gestures to his forehead. “If you could kindly not include my tragic battle scar, I’d appreciate it.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “Battle scar, huh?”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

I arch a brow. “Do you want to talk about it, or do you prefer to be the mysterious, broody type?”

His easygoing expression falters for a fraction of a second before he recovers, his gaze flicking toward the lake. It’s subtle, the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers curl slightly against the rock. “Car accident when I was a kid. Lost my parents in it.”

The teasing dies on my lips. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a dumb childhood mishap—like falling out of a tree, or taking a baseball to the face. But not this. Not even close.

I grip my pencil a little tighter. “Theo…”

He glances at me, reading the shift in my tone. “It was a long time ago,” he says, voice even. “I don’t talk about it much, but… it’s part of me.”

I hesitate, then say, “I get that.” Because I do. Some wounds don’t heal. You just get better at carrying them.

A beat of silence passes before Theo offers me a small, lopsided grin. Like he’s giving me an out. Like he won’t make me sit in the heaviness of it if I don’t want to. “So, am I still getting a portrait, or did I just kill the mood?”