Sketch sat on the end of the park bench, backpack slumped against his knee, watching a little kid in a red jacket try to pump higher on the swings and almost slide out of the seat.

  The air had that late?afternoon chill, all thin sunlight and old leaves. Moms and grandmas clustered on the other benches, trading gossip and plastic snack bags. Somewhere behind him, a dog barked like it had personal beef with a squirrel.

  His brain wasn’t in the park.

  It kept circling back to the new kid.

  Transfer student, showed up in third period English like he owned the place. Hoodie, easy grin, that kind of loose charisma Sketch had only ever seen in movies. The teacher had barely finished saying “…welcome to Patterson Ridge High” before half the class was leaning toward him.

  Even Montana.

  Queen Bee herself had drifted over by lunch with her little constellation of Stately Babes, laughing too hard at his jokes, twirling her hair, asking where he was from. The new kid had just smiled and turned it on, like he had a dimmer switch for people’s attention.

  Sketch envied it, if he was honest. How did someone look that comfortable in a new school surrounded by strangers? Like he’d just…slotted in. No hesitations. No gap.

  Thinking about Montana—something he usually avoided on purpose—brought Diana up with her, like a ghost attached to the same chain.

  He remembered the first time it hit him that Diana was drifting away. The way she’d started lingering at the edge of Montana’s group in the hallway, laughing at things that weren’t funny, ignoring him when he passed. How much it had hurt when she stopped answering his texts. How betrayed and stupid he’d felt, sitting with his sketchbook in the cafeteria while she sat three tables over pretending she didn’t know him.

  She never said it out loud, but he’d known why. He wasn’t cool enough to hang with. Not for the version of her that wanted to orbit Montana Eckhart.

  And then he’d overheard it—the dare. Montana’s voice in the empty Biology classroom, bouncing off tile.

  “…skating center wall…if you want in…”

  He’d been in the closet, putting away the microscopes for Mrs. Jensen, heart thudding, listening. Knowing, with this horrible sinking certainty, that Diana would do it. That she’d take a can of paint and go chase Montana’s approval into actual trouble.

  It had felt like a gut punch. Like watching somebody step off a ledge in slow motion.

  So he’d shown up. Against all common sense or self?preservation. Stood under a streetlight like an idiot lookout with sunglasses on at midnight, making terrible bird calls and hoping she wouldn’t see how scared he was.

  And then the world had cracked.

  Creatures in alleys. The cops’ weird forms. Monsters that no one saw, except Diana. Ms. Cho and her magic powers. And somehow, in the middle of all that, his best friend had walked back into his life like she’d just been in the next room.

  He’d tried to hold on to the anger. He really had. You weren’t supposed to just forget a year of being ignored. But it had melted so fast around her, like she was the sun and he’d only ever been holding frost.

  His funny, smart, sarcastic friend who got quiet when she thought about her dad. Who lashed out with anger when she was embarrassed. Who made reckless choices to prove she was good enough, and who would stand between a frilled lizard monster and a helpless kid if she had to. He knew she would.

  Good?hearted. Brave. Infuriating.

  The last month had been…great. The same as it had always been—arguing about movies, sharing snacks, him sketching while she talked—but also not the same at all. A year apart had stretched something between them; when it snapped back, it landed in a new place.

  Her smile made his insides do weird flopping things now. There was that one curl that always fought its way free of her hood and bounced against her cheek. He caught himself wanting to reach out and tuck it back, just to see if her skin felt as soft as it looked.

  He’d always wanted to draw her—he’d done it a hundred times—but lately it had started to feel…different. Less like “subject” and more like “I want an excuse to look at you for an hour without anyone asking why.”

  And when had she started smelling so good? Some mix of lavender soap and almond shampoo and something that was just her. It clung to his hoodie when she’d leaned in to point at his monster sketches, and he’d gone home and sat on his bed like a complete idiot breathing his own sleeves.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He hadn’t seen her in over a week.

  That was normal, he told himself. She’d gotten into a new school. Fancy one. She was figuring out new hallways, new classes, new people. They’d texted a little, but she was “sorry, studying” a lot, or “tutor” or “placement stuff” or just not answering until late.

  What if her place wasn’t with him anymore?

  The thought sat in his gut like a stone. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just…possible. Here at Patterson, he was still the art nerd in sunglasses. There, she was…whatever Northbridge needed her to be. Scholarship kid. Cho’s “project.” Girl who saw monsters.

  A little kid on the swings squealed as he finally managed to get some real height. The chains creaked. Sketch dragged in a breath that tasted like damp leaves and exhaust and tried to unclench his shoulders.

  He sighed and pulled his backpack closer. Unzipped it, careful of the worn seams. Slid out the hardcover sketchbook he’d started calling, in his head, the one—Diana’s monsters, Diana’s world. The one they needed to fill.

  He hugged it to his chest, pressing the cool cardboard and paper into his hoodie.

  He’d taken to carrying it around. It made him feel closer to her. Like as long as he had this—these lines, these shapes, these pieces of the hidden world she’d handed him—she hadn’t walked too far away.

  He flipped it open and started paging through, the way he always did when he needed to calm down.

  The first page: the slime thing from the street, six feet of neon snot with mandibles. Next: the winged lizard from the precinct ceiling, all spine?ridges and clear, insect wings.

  He hesitated. That one actually had a name now. Not “moth lizard.” He could see the neat serif font in his head from Diana’s contraband textbook.

  Harbor Sprite.

  He dug a pencil from his pocket, bent close, and printed the name at the top of the page in careful block letters. It felt…right. Like cataloguing, not just doodling.

  He turned to the frill?necked alley thing, caught mid?lunge in graphite and Prismacolor. They had sat together on Diana’s bed with her eyes huge, saying, It’s in a book, it has a name, I’m not crazy. Greenway Frill. That was it.

  He added that above the drawing too. GREENWAY FRILL. The letters looked almost official.

  “Those are really cool.”

  Sketch jumped. The pencil jerked; he left a little notch in the margin.

  He whipped around on the bench, slamming the sketchbook shut on instinct.

  The transfer student stood behind him.

  Up close, The boy looked even more at ease than he had under the fluorescent buzz of English. Hands in his hoodie pockets, messenger bag slung low, hair doing that effortless flop thing. He smiled—a lopsided grin that made it feel like they were already in on some joke together—and gave a small wave.

  “I saw you at school, right?” he said. “Hey. My name’s Theo.”

  Before Sketch could answer, Theo circled the bench and dropped onto the slats beside him, close enough that their knees almost brushed.

  “And you are…” Theo closed his eyes theatrically and tipped his head back like he was accessing a file. Beat. “Mikey?”

  “Yeah,” Sketch said, automatically, then winced. “I mean—people call me Sketch.”

  Theo’s eyes opened again. “Right. Sketch.” Another easy grin. “Thought so. One of my many talents.”

  Remembering people’s names, he meant. Probably. Sketch’s shoulders, which had snapped up around his ears, started to unknot a fraction. It was odd—it didn’t make sense—but being near this guy felt…easy. Like he could borrow some of that looseness through osmosis.

  “That was…you draw those?” Theo tilted his head toward the sketchbook still under Sketch’s hand.

  “Yeah,” Sketch said, fingers tightening. “Just…stuff.”

  “Good stuff,” Theo said, it didn’t sound fake or like he was trying to get something. “Really good.”

  Heat pricked at the back of Sketch’s neck. Compliments he could handle in theory; in practice, they made his brain blue?screen.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “It’s just—”

  Theo leaned in.

  Sketch’s breath caught. That was…close. Too close. He could see tiny flecks of gold in Theo’s irises, smell something warm and clean under the hoodie fabric.

  His thoughts did a weird skid. He liked girls. He’d always liked girls. People at school gushed over this or that actor, and he’d never felt even a flicker. But now his stomach did a full flip and his body seemed to have missed the memo about personal space.

  Theo came closer still, close enough that Sketch could feel his breath on his cheek. Sketch’s muscles tensed—but he didn’t actually move away.

  Why didn’t he want to pull away?

  In one smooth motion, Theo slid something into the front pocket of Sketch’s hoodie. At the same time, he lifted Sketch’s backpack from where it leaned against the bench leg and settled it carefully across Sketch’s lap like he was tucking a kid in.

  “Call the number on the card,” Theo said, voice low and oddly gentle. “Okay?”

  The words sank in a second after the warmth of them. Card. Number. Call.

  Sketch’s brain stuttered. He dropped his gaze, saw the edge of a business?card?sized rectangle peeking from his pocket. His fingers twitched toward it on reflex.

  Theo leaned back then, the spell of closeness snapping. Cool air rushed into the space between them.

  Sketch’s body reacted before his brain did. He lurched to his feet, the backpack nearly sliding off his lap before he grabbed the strap. His heart hammered like he’d just sprinted.

  “Uh—I—gotta—” he managed, not even sure what he was trying to say. “Homework.”

  Smooth. Very smooth.

  He didn’t wait to see Theo’s reaction. He turned and walked away too fast to be casual, gravel crunching under his sneakers, sketchbook clutched tight under one arm like a shield and the ghost of that stupid, easy smile burned into the back of his eyes.