Vick (aka — Vincent) And Viola From Teenburg

And for the first time that evening, Vincent—not Vick the ghost, not Vick the shadow—smiled like he meant it.

Viola didn't flinch. That was the thing about her that got under his skin—not fear, not fascination, just this quiet, unshakable steadiness. She closed her sketchbook. vick (aka vincent) and viola from teenburg

Vick—Vincent, if you wanted to be formal, which nobody in Teenburg ever did—leaned against the rusted jungle gym like he owned the sunset. Hands in his pockets, cap pulled low, the ghost of a smirk permanently etched onto his face. He was the kind of quiet that made teachers nervous and kids curious. Trouble, but the slow-burn kind. And for the first time that evening, Vincent—not

He tilted his head. For a second, the smirk flickered. "Honestly? I don't know yet. That's what scares me." She closed her sketchbook

She held his gaze. "Good."

"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her sketchbook.

She finally glanced up, pencil hovering. "You're not an artist."