You don't sleep, the night interrupted by dreams you can't remember and Dakota's steady breathing at the next bed over. When your alarm flashes to life, you lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to unknot the mess in your mind. Beckett's absence at the group meet-up yesterday lingers in your chest, making you wonder how much things can change in just a few days.
Downstairs, the student center buzzes with activity. Flyers for the rivalry game are everywhere, and the mural wall has become an unofficial landmark, with students snapping photos, posting about "the big reveal."
Jasper's waiting outside the art room, already organizing brushes and paint cans. He lights up when he sees you, offering your favorite coffee and a crooked smile.
"Ready?" he asks, as if sheer energy can erase your doubts.
You nod, letting him hand you a cup, but something feels off. The group's smaller today: Priya and Hannah join you and Jasper, but Beckett's missing, his absence impossible not to notice. Nobody says it aloud, but the silence is heavy.
Hannah tries to rally, passing out snacks with exaggerated cheer. "Big day!" she calls. "We finish the backgrounds before lunch and we get pizza. I bribed Marcus."
You force a laugh, and Jasper throws a reassuring arm around your shoulders, steering you toward the wall. "You got this, Maren. Your colors, your call."
You let yourself be swept up in the task, trying to bury the ache beneath the hum of creation. For a while, it works: the brushes glide, the wall comes alive beneath your hands, the world narrows to lines and color, hope painted over doubt.
But every time your laughter echoes a little too loudly, every time Jasper praises your choices or grins at a passing shout from a fellow student, you notice Priya's quiet glances, the way Hannah keeps checking her phone.
You turn away from the mural, scanning the crowd, your hands smudged with blue. Beckett isn't there.
For the first time all week, you wish you could stop pretending it doesn't hurt.
The mural is only half-finished, but you can already tell: some lines are easier to fix than others.
At lunchtime, you spot Beckett at the edge of the field, helmet wobbling in his grip, shirt streaked with grass stains. You don't wait for him to notice you; you cross the hot sidewalk and call out, "Hey, Ford! Think you can run faster than your ghosts?"
He stops, caught off guard, then cracks a tired grin. "Depends. Some days they're quick."
You plant yourself in his path, arms crossed. "You've been dodging me and everyone else. Not cool."
Beckett glances at the team, some of them already eyeing your standoff, then lowers his voice. "I know. That's on me. Sorry."
"So? You just needed to disappear?" The words sting even as you say them.
He sighs. "I just needed space, Maren. That's it. Wasn't about you."
You study his face. "Felt like it."
He sighs and nudges you with his elbow. "I just don't think Jasper is good for you. And I don't really know how to handle that. So, I needed time to..adjust."
You purse your lips. "You don't get to decide who is good for me, Beck." Your voice is gentle, not sharp.
He chews his lip, awkward and honest. "I know. But I'm back now. I'll survive art world drama. Even Jasper. I can be civil, promise."
You search for sarcasm and find only a little. "I won't make you hang out just for my sake," you mutter, but you don't mean it.
He bumps your shoulder. "You couldn't keep me away if you tried. Just... let's get the wall done, all right? I'll even fetch snacks for the crew." Coach's whistle cuts through the warm air. "Speaking of surviving.. Gotta go get yelled at. I'll see you later?"
You nod. "Don't let Marcus steal your water again."
He grins and jogs back, tossing a wave over his shoulder.
You jog back to the mural wall, dragging your cart of brushes and cans, your hair flecked with dried teal. The afternoon sun throws warm light across the chaos: Priya balancing on a step stool, Hannah singing off-key to a playlist you're pretty sure you didn't approve, Jasper fussing with his sketchbook and already splattered with paint.
You barely have time to grab a roller before Beckett shows up, fresh from practice, his shirt still clinging damp to his shoulders. He tosses his bag down at the edge of the walkway, grabs a paint tray, and holds it out like an offering. "Somebody want to give me a job or am I just the mascot?"
Hannah tosses him a rag. "You're late. You're on clean-up crew and background fills."
He grins, swiping blue over a corner of bare concrete before purposely "accidentally" splattering some on her shoes. She yelps and swats at him with her brush.
Jasper catches your eye and shakes his head, lips quirking. "Remind me who invited a linebacker?"
"Wide receiver," Beckett calls over his shoulder. "If you wanted precision, you should've picked one of the math majors."
You bite back a laugh and hand Beckett a smaller detail brush. "Think you can handle this, or is that asking too much finesse?"
He bumps your shoulder with his and lowers his voice. "Don't tempt me."
You slip right back into the old rhythm, working your way across the wall in tandem, joking with Beckett, dodging Jasper's stage directions, raiding Priya's tape stash, hollering back and forth with Hannah over the playlist. Even Jasper, for all his intensity, starts to fit into the noise, his lines loosening as the group energy takes hold.
With Beckett at your side, the awkwardness fades, replaced by the kind of good-natured chaos you've missed all week. You can almost forget the tension of yesterday, the hard messages, the weight of Dakota's tough love. You just lose yourself in paint, laughter, and shared space.
When the sun starts to dip and hunger takes over, Beckett is the first to slam his roller into the wash bucket and yell, "Last one out spring for ice cream!" Everyone groans and rushes to clean up, all elbows and inside jokes as you race across the quad together. You fall into step beside Beckett, paint on your hands, suddenly light.
For a moment, you're just a team again. Loud, messy, and right where you want to be.
You crowd into the corner booth at Pietro's, five deep with backpacks wedged under the table and paint-stained hands waving for extra napkins. The air smells like garlic and melted cheese, a comfort you didn't know you'd been missing until now.
Hannah claims the seat against the wall and immediately snags the greasy parmesan shaker. Priya scrolls through her phone, trying to figure out everyone's half-remembered orders. Jasper sits next to you, reviewing mural photos on his phone, occasionally nudging your elbow to share the best ones, each moment caught in paint-splattered glory.
Beckett settles on your other side, wrestling a slice onto his plate and tossing a wadded napkin at Hannah for old times' sake. The banter builds over the clatter of plates and shouts from nearby tables.
"First person to use the words 'color theory' owes me a soda," Beckett says, grinning at you. You're up for the challenge, so you shove your notebook down and threaten to recite every art term you know.
Jasper leans over, his voice low enough for just you to hear. "You look happier than you have in days. The mural's coming together because of you, you know?"
You smile, a little flustered, and catch Beckett giving you a side-eye and a smirk like he heard but won't say a thing. He elbows you gently, then starts an argument with Priya about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
Hannah tries to draw Priya's architecture skills into a pizza pyramid design, napkins and crusts forming the "model", and before long, everyone's in on it, snapping photos, laughing so hard at Hannah's "rejected blueprints" that you nearly choke on your soda.
At the end, you lean back, full and happy, shoulder pressed into Beckett's on one side and Jasper's on the other. For now, rivalry week and old wounds feel a little less heavy. Here, in the warmth of the booth and your messy, noisy friends, everything slides briefly into place.
When you leave as a group, Beckett grabs the last piece, holding it out to you.
"For good luck," he says, grinning. You take it, brushing your fingers with his, and toss him a "Don't trip on the way out, Ford."
He bows with mock dignity. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The bell above the door jingles, the night already carrying the buzz of a new chapter waiting just outside.
After you're back in your dorm, you change into your pajamas. Before you settle down into the couch, your phone buzzes.
Beckett: Roof?
You smile and slip on your houseshoes, heading outside and up the staircase.
You settle next to Beckett on the rooftop ledge, the city lights glowing soft below. Neither of you speaks at first; you just listen to the distant shouts, the thump of a bass from somewhere across campus, and the wind nudging at your hair. Beckett shifts his weight, kicks one heel against the brick, and lets out a long breath.
He finally turns, voice low. "I owe you an apology."
You slide him a glance. "For what this time?"
He rubs the back of his neck, looking straight ahead. "For intruding. For acting like I get a say in who you let in, or how you live. You've got your own stuff now. Art, Jasper, all of it. And I shouldn't have made it about me. I made things weird, and that's not fair."
You study his profile in the half-dark. He's holding onto something, determined to get the words out.
"I just... I keep thinking about how we grew up together. How you used to call me to climb out on a roof whenever life got insane. I just want you to know I'm not trying to hold you back."
You can hear how hard he's working to get it right, and it makes your own chest tighten.
You lean in a little. "You didn't have to come up here to say that, Beck. I know you mean well. Sometimes you just go protective grizzly bear and forget I've survived my own messes for a while."
He huffs a laugh. "That's probably true. I just..." He pauses, searching for words. "I know things are changing. You should get to figure it out without me butting in or making you second-guess yourself."
You bump his shoulder, gentle. "You're not intruding, not really. You just care so much you forget I already know how much you do."
He looks at you, finally meeting your eyes, and this time you see the relief. "Still friends?" he asks, tentative.
You nudge him again. "You know we are."
A breeze flutters between you; the moment settles comfortable and easy. Beckett smiles, wider now, the apology settling.
You sit together in the dark, nothing left to fix, just the simplicity of two friends on a rooftop. This time, you leave the sky behind feeling just a little lighter.
The next morning you wake up to sunlight and a phone buzzing with a message from Jasper.
Jasper: Meet me at the mural before class? Got an idea.
By the time you reach the wall, Jasper is already waiting, sketchbook open and hair wild from the wind. He looks up at you and grins like you're his favorite secret.
You drop your bag beside the paint cans. "What's the idea?"
He leans in close, so close you can smell coffee and see flecks of paint on his jawline. "Trust me?"
You laugh and roll your eyes, but let him take your hand. He pulls you right up to the mural, guiding your fingers over a half-dry streak of deep green. His voice is a whisper in your ear, "Close your eyes."
When you do, he moves your hand in slow arcs across the wall, sketching something new and spontaneous on top of your careful design. You open your eyes and see bold strokes. Messier than planned, but alive, wild, absolutely yours and his, together.
"What are we doing?" you ask, smiling.
"We're making it better," Jasper says. His hand lingers on yours, warm even in the morning chill.
For a moment you're pressed close, paint drying under your fingernails and laughter bubbling out of you. When you step back, Jasper doesn't let go right away. You realize it's easy to let yourself lean in, here, in sunlight, with just the two of you and the work you're making.
He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, thumb tracing the line of green on your cheek. "You turn everything you touch into color, Maren."
You snort. "You're such a cheeseball."
He grins, unfazed. "You say that like it's bad."
He leans down and kisses you softly, making your heart soar.
You go back to painting, but every time your arms brush or your eyes meet, there's something new simmering between you. It feels big and heady. Electric in a way that's different from anything you've felt before.
When the others finally drift over to the mural, you and Jasper are standing just a little closer than before, the warmth of his recent kiss still tingling on your mouth. You're both grinning, breathless and paint-splattered, and for a second it feels like nothing in the world could go wrong.
Hannah slows as she sees you. "Did we miss the secret epiphany, or just the good snacks?"
Jasper shoots you a look, then shrugs. "Just a creative breakthrough, that's all."
Priya raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, swapping brushes with you and glancing at the newest wild streaks on the wall. You duck your head to hide your smile as Jasper's hand slips down to brush your fingers, a silent, secret reassurance that yes, he meant it.
You sink back into the paint and banter, letting the noise and comfort of your friends swirl around you. Beckett arrives last, hands in his pockets, catching the tail end of your laughter before he sets his stuff down a little farther away than usual.
There's a natural pause, Hannah wiping paint on her jeans, Priya humming over her sketchbook, where you almost tell everyone about your morning, but you don't. Not yet. Not with Beckett hovering at the edges, not when things feel balanced on the fragile line between new and old.
Jasper bumps your shoulder, eyes bright. "We're ahead of schedule. Who wants to race for coffee before they run out?"
The group groans and mocks-argues over who has to clean the trays, but you feel lighter as you join the chorus. For all the confusion, you want this: messy hands, unexpected kisses, the whole beautiful chaos of it.
As you sling your bag over your shoulder and fall into step beside Jasper and the rest of your friends, you look back once at Beckett, who just offers a quiet nod and a half-smile. The mural wall behind you is alive with color, wild and imperfect, shimmering in the newness of the morning. You wonder if tomorrow, everything will stay in place a little longer.