Chapter 3
Marcus
I'm not stalking her.
I'm conducting research.
There's a difference.
"There's really not," Ethan says when I explain this to him over lunch the next day. "You've been watching her studio for three hours."
"I'm assessing her work patterns. She needs a timeline, which requires understanding her creative process."
"You're sitting across the quad staring at the art building like a creep."
I’m hyperaware of my body in space, of the distance between us, of every small movement and what it might signify. It’s exhausting, this constant monitoring. But it’s also become second nature.
"I'm being thorough."
Ethan steals one of my fries. "You know what would be less creepy? Actually talking to her."
"She made it clear she doesn't want my help."
"And you made it clear you're giving it anyway. So commit to the bit. Stop lurking and start helping."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"She's going to tell me to leave."
"Probably. But you'll go back. Because you're Marcus Chen and you can't leave a problem unsolved." He stands, gathering his trash. "Just... be honest with her. About why you're really doing this."
"I'm helping because Isla asked—"
"You're helping because you've been in love with Lilah Rodriguez since freshman year and you're too scared to admit it." He walks away before I can argue. "Good luck, Chen. You're going to need it."
I sit there for another ten minutes, weighing my options.
Option A: Continue from a distance. Send helpful emails. Provide resources she can use or ignore.
Option B: Actually go to her studio. Offer hands-on help. Risk getting close enough that she sees through my carefully maintained walls.
My heart does something complicated in my chest, a rhythm that’s become familiar over these weeks, these months. It’s the feeling of walls coming down, of control slipping away, of allowing myself to want something I can’t calculate or predict.
Option A is safer. Smarter. Maintains the distance I've worked so hard to create.
Option B is terrifying.
I choose Option B.
Because Ethan's right. I can't leave this problem unsolved and Lilah Rodriguez is the most complicated problem I've ever encountered.
I get to the art studios which is in the basement of the Winters Building. I follow the sound of angry music and paint-related cursing until I find her.
Studio 7. The door is propped open. Inside, Lilah is attacking a canvas with what looks like controlled fury.
There’s a complexity to this moment that I can’t quite name. Something about the way past and present collide, the way carefully maintained boundaries start to blur when you least expect it.
The details come into sharp focus in that hyperaware way that happens when emotions run high. The particular quality of the light. The ambient sounds that normally fade into background noise. The temperature of the air against my skin.
She's wearing the same paint-stained overalls from yesterday, but now they're even more covered in color. Her hair is falling out of its bun. There's a streak of red paint across her cheek.
She's magnificent.
"Are you going to stand there all day or actually come in?" She doesn't turn around.
"How did you know I was here?"
"Your cologne. Expensive and subtle. Very you." She adds a slash of blue to the canvas. "Plus, you've been standing there for five minutes trying to decide if this is a good idea."
"Is it? A good idea?"
"Probably not. But you're here anyway." She finally turns around. "So either help or leave. I don't have time for spectators." The look on her face is neutral, telling me nothing if she’s happy or annoyed I’m here.
I step inside. The studio is chaotic. Paint everywhere, canvas stacked haphazardly, brushes soaking in jars of murky water. Sketches pinned to every available surface. Empty coffee cups forming a small mountain on the desk.
It should stress me out. The disorder, the lack of system, the pure creative chaos.
Instead, it feels like seeing something honest. Real.
"You used my timeline," I observe. There's a printed copy on her desk, marked up with notes and revisions.
"Your timeline was annoyingly logical. Turns out logic is helpful when you're drowning." She sets down her brush. "Don't let it go to your head." The side of her lip curls into the smallest smile, and if that’s so beautiful what will her full smile be?
"Too late. My head is enormous from all the validation."
She almost smiles bigger. Almost. "Why are you really here, Marcus?"
"To help."
"No. Why are you really here? You've avoided me for three years. Now suddenly you're Mr. Helpful. What changed?"
I could lie. Should lie. Maintain the pretense that this is just problem-solving.
But Ethan's words echo, Be honest with her.
"You scare me," I say before I can overthink it.
Lilah blinks. "I scare you. Me. The five-foot-four art student who cries at sad commercials." Her comment makes me smile.
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because you make me feel things I can't control.
Think about things I can't plan. I want things I can't calculate the outcome for.
" I stay near the door, maintaining distance.
"I've spent my entire life creating order.
Solving problems. Maintaining control. And you, you're the opposite of all of that.
You're chaotic, emotional and spontaneous. You terrify me."
"So you avoided me."
"So I avoided you. Because it was easier than admitting that I don't know how to be around you without losing the control I've worked so hard to maintain."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those dark beautiful eyes.
"That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in years."
"Yeah, well. Honesty is uncomfortable. I hate it," I tell her, because I don’t like things like this, this isn’t me, and she’s already making me feel uncomfortable outside of my safety box.
"But you did it anyway," she says.
"Seemed like the only option that might get you to let me help you."
She laughs, actually laughs and the sound does something dangerous to my carefully controlled heart. What is happening?
"Okay. You can help. But ground rules."
I thought maybe she would mention something about what I’ve just said, but she probably doesn’t want to stress me out more than I already am.
"I'm listening."
"One: Don't try to organize my chaos. I know it looks messy, but I know where everything is."
"Noted." Even though it's taking everything in me to clean up, or at least make a system for her.
"Two: Don't treat this like a business project. Art isn't about optimization and efficiency. Sometimes the messy path is the right path."
"That goes against everything I believe, but okay."
"Three: If you're going to be here, be here. No half-assing it because you're scared. Either commit to helping me or leave now."
"I'm committed."
"Even if it's messy? Even if it's emotional? Even if it makes you uncomfortable?" The questions keep coming, and I quickly answer so she can take a breath.
"Especially then. Because uncomfortable usually means growth. Or so my therapist tells me."
"You have a therapist?" She looks at me in surprise.
"Everyone should have a therapist. Mine specializes in control issues and perfectionism." I pull out my phone. "Should we start with an inventory of salvageable materials?"
"No. We start with coffee. Real coffee, not whatever cafeteria sludge you probably drink." She grabs her jacket. "Come on. There's a place off campus. We'll talk about strategy there."
"I thought you hated plans," I joke with her .
"I hate boring plans. Your plans are annoyingly effective. There's a difference."
We leave the studio and head off campus. She talks the entire walk, about art, about her vision for the show, about how violated she feels that someone destroyed her work.
I listen. Actually listen. Not planning my response or calculating solutions. Just hearing her.
It's uncomfortable. It's unfamiliar.
It's exactly what I need.