Ghost Frame

It had been three days since the kiss.

Three days of late studio sessions, shared coffees, wordless smiles across the paint-splattered floor. Clara didn't need to label whatever this was with Lucien — not yet. It wasn't love, not exactly. But it was something living and breathing and hers.

He'd started letting her photograph him — hands, profile, glimpses of the tattoo on his ribcage. And Clara, in turn, let him into her process. She painted with her headphones off now, no longer hiding behind the music.

Their collaborative piece for Unmasking was slowly coming together. On one wall of the studio, Lucien hung prints in grayscale — moments frozen in silence. On the canvas beside them, Clara painted emotion in sweeping, vivid strokes.

It was raw. Messy. Personal.

And maybe that was why it was working.

Thursday – Studio

"I want to try something," Clara said, biting the end of her brush.

Lucien arched an eyebrow. "Dangerous."

She ignored the smirk. "I want you to paint part of it. Even if it's messy. Even if it's wrong."

"I haven't held a brush since high school."

"That's the point," she said, handing him a thin one. "Show me something unpracticed."

He hesitated, then took the brush. Dipped it in burnt sienna. His hand trembled slightly as he brought it to the canvas.

Clara watched as he traced a small line, then another — not perfect, but intentional.

"You're tense," she murmured.

He glanced at her. "You're staring."

"I'm allowed."

His lips quirked. "We'll see."

Later That Night – Lucien's Apartment

Clara leaned against the doorframe, sketchbook in hand, as Lucien rifled through a drawer.

"I don't usually show people this," he muttered.

"Show me what?"

He pulled out a beat-up manila folder and handed it to her.

Inside were photos. Old ones. Printed on matte paper, not glossy — raw and sharp and painful.

A boy with bruises under his eyes. A woman in a hospital gown, smiling too brightly. A man—slouched in a recliner, bottle on the table, eyes vacant.

Lucien watched her face carefully as she flipped through them.

"I took these when I was sixteen," he said. "I thought maybe… if I captured it all, it would make it real. That it would stop being so heavy."

Clara ran her fingers across one photo. "You never showed anyone?"

"No one wanted to see."

"I do."

He let out a breath. "You're not like other people."

"I know," she said softly. "Neither are you."

And then she kissed him again. This time slower, steadier — a grounding kind of kiss. The kind that didn't ask for promises, just presence.

Friday Morning – University Quad

Clara's phone buzzed with a message from Lou:

hey uhh just saw something weird… some girl in the courtyard talking to Lucien. looked tense. u ok?

Clara frowned. Some girl?

She walked faster, rounding the corner.

And there she was.

A girl with bleach-blonde hair and too-high cheekbones. Leaning in close to Lucien, who stood stiffly against a tree.

Clara couldn't hear what was being said — but she didn't need to. The tension on Lucien's face said enough.

The girl touched his arm, almost mockingly. Clara's stomach twisted.

Lucien spotted her then.

His expression shuttered instantly.

"Clara—" he started, walking toward her.

"Who was that?" she asked, arms crossing.

Lucien looked back once. The girl had already vanished into the crowd.

"Her name's Sylvie," he muttered. "We… we hooked up a few times last year."

"Oh." Clara tried to keep her voice even.

"She wants something," Lucien added. "I don't know what yet."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

He flinched. "You think I'm lying?"

"I think you're hiding."

Lucien raked a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."

"That's the thing about masks, Lucien," she said quietly. "Sometimes we wear them so long, we forget how to take them off."

That Night – Clara's Room

She tried to paint, but her fingers kept pausing over the canvas.

Was she being unreasonable? Jealous? Paranoid?

But something about Sylvie's smile haunted her.

Something in Lucien's eyes… not guilt. Not quite.

Fear.

She wanted to believe in him. In them. But when you build something delicate on a crack, even the smallest shift could bring the whole thing down.