I've never seen Alfie Spencer look uncertain about anything—well, except when he asked me to be his fake girlfriend—but there's something almost vulnerable in the way he holds his book.
“It’s not very... me,” he says finally, fingers tight on the cover. “but I thought maybe...”
He hands me the book, and my breath catches.
The design spreads across two pages in a riot of color that makes my heart stutter. Pink washes blend into soft purples and blues, creating a dreamy backdrop for dozens of wildflowers that look like they might actually be dancing.
It’s whimsical and magical and absolutely nothing like what I’d expect from someone who treats black clothing like a religion.
I realize with a finality that makes my throat tight - he’s right, it isn’t very him. It’s veryme.
Every petal, every swirl of color, every playful detailcaptures the exact kind of joy I try to bring to everything. He’s been watching. Really seeing me.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Because this is exactly what I’ve been afraid of – the way he notices things about me, the way he pays attention, the way he somehow sees past all my defensive brightness to something real underneath. The way he makes me want to let him.
I don’t need this. Don’t need the way my pulse jumps when he rolls up his sleeves. Don’t need the flutter in my stomach when he remembers tiny details about me. Don’t need to rely on anyone else for anything. Not after finding out how Mom and Troy thought I needed protecting from the truth. Not after spending so long proving I can handle things myself.
Except... maybe with Alfie, it’s not about needing. Maybe it’s about wanting. Maybe I want to know what other beautiful things he keeps hidden in that sketchbook. Maybe I want to be the reason he creates something this bright and hopeful.
“Alfie, this is...”
“Too much?” He examines the drawing intensely. “I know it’s not very sophisticated. We can do something else?—”
“It’s beautiful.” I look up at him, this boy who pretends to be all sharp edges but apparently has this much softness inside him. “I had no idea you could...”
“Draw flowers?” His laugh is self-deprecating. “Yeah, doesn’t really fit the image.”
“No, I mean...” I trace one of the flowers with my finger. “Create something this... alive.” I study the designmore closely, an idea forming. “Though you know what would make it even better?”
His eyebrows lift. “It needs something?”
“Butterflies.” I point to an empty space near the corner. “Like, a whole swarm of them, rising up from the flowers. You know how butterflies sometimes all take off at once? It could be like that, but in pinks and purples, getting lighter as they go up...”
“Tara.” There’s a warning in his voice. “The design is finished.”
“But imagine it! They could look like they’re escaping the wall, like they’re actually flying away. We could even make some of them metallic, so they catch the light?—”
“I can’t draw butterflies.”
I actually laugh out loud. “Are you kidding? You just drew the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, but you’re trying to tell me butterflies are beyond your artistic abilities?”
“Flowers don’t move much,” he mutters. “Butterflies are different.”
“Different how?”
“They’re more delicate. More alive.” His ears are definitely pink now. “I can’t capture that.”
“Bullshit.” I grab his pencil, pressing it into his hand. “The Alfie Spencer I know doesn’t back down from a challenge. And besides”—I lean closer, unable to resist teasing him—“I thought you were‘very good with your hands’? But, if you’re willing to admit you’re in fact not good with them, then that’s your decision”
His eyes darken at the callback to the other night. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he’s already bringing the pencil to paper.
“I might add one, just one.”
I watch his hands move across the design, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence. Each stroke adds life to an already beautiful piece, and something warm unfurls in my chest. Because maybe this is what it means to let someone in - not needing them to make something complete, but pushing them to create something they didn’t think they could.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, not looking up from his drawing.
“Just... surprised. I didn’t think you even liked pink.”
