Penelope couldn't sleep.
Not because of Julian's sketch. Not even because of the silence that followed it.
But because when she closed her eyes… she didn't dream about the boy who loved her.
She dreamed about the boy she couldn't stop noticing.
Scott Rivers.
And it wasn't just the mystery, the charm, or the way he leaned in like every conversation was a confession. It was the way he made her question herself — question everything.
And maybe that was the real problem.
Friday morning, Penelope slipped into the art room early. No noise, no students. Just her and the charcoal pencils. And the canvas she'd hidden in the corner.
It was covered with sketches of both boys.
Julian.
Scott.
Light and shadow. Soft lines versus sharp angles. Two halves of the same ache.
She stared at it like it might explain her own heart. It didn't.
"Looks like a love triangle," a voice said behind her.
She spun around.
It was Scott.
Of course.
"Don't you ever knock?" she asked.
"I did. Your music was too loud."
She hadn't even realized it was playing. Billie Eilish, low and haunting.
Scott walked closer. His eyes landed on the canvas.
"You drew me."
Penelope swallowed. "I draw a lot of people."
"You shaded my lips," he said. "Twice."
She hated how warm her cheeks got.
"Julian's lucky," Scott said, quieter now. "You give him softness. Light. It's like you're protecting him with your lines."
She frowned. "And you?"
Scott looked at her. "You don't protect me. You study me."
It wasn't a flirt. It was a warning.
Penelope crossed her arms. "Why do you even care, Scott? What is this? Some kind of poetic sabotage? You waltz into my life, say cryptic things, and then disappear again?"
Scott stepped closer.
"I didn't come here to disappear, Penelope."
A beat.
He looked at the sketch again, eyes scanning it like he saw more than what was drawn.
"You should know," he said finally, "I didn't transfer here by accident."
Her heart dropped. "What?"
"I came to Bayside for a reason."
"Because of me?"
"No," he said. "Because of Julian."
Now her heart plummeted.
Scott took a breath. "Your boyfriend's not who you think he is."
Penelope's world tilted.
"What are you talking about?"
Scott glanced at the door, lowered his voice. "Let's just say… some of us have a history. One he hasn't told you about."
"Scott—"
He pulled a folded photo from his back pocket. Gently handed it to her.
She opened it.
And froze.
It was Julian. Two years younger. Standing beside a group of boys — one of them bruised, one crying. Julian's knuckles were bloody.
The caption written on the back, in pen, chilled her:
> "He said art was pain. But I didn't know he meant it literally."
Penelope stared at the image. At Julian's expression.
Cold. Unrecognizable.
"This can't be real," she whispered.
Scott looked at her, honest and sad and sharper than ever.
"You asked why I care?" he said. "Because I used to be one of those boys."
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