𝙄𝙙𝙞𝙤𝙩 || 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙮 & 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮

CH #4

Draco's POV:

I sat in my dorm room, letting Blaise write while I painted. The rhythmic scratching of his quill against his notebook blended against the rough strokes of my paintbrush. Outside, the wind rattled against the window, but inside the fire crackled with the scent of firewood, paint and old parchment.

"What are you so aggressive for?" Blaise asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.

The words startled me. My hand jerked, and the brush slammed into the canvas, leaving a jagged green blotch smeared across one of the trees I'd spent hours perfecting. I bit down on my lip, tasting the frustration.

"I'm fine," I said sharply, barely glancing at him.

When I finally looked, Blaise's eyebrow was arched, his expression caught between amusement and suspicion. It was then that I realized he hadn't asked if I was fine at all.

"You're ruining that tree," Blaise added, nodding toward the canvas as he flipped a page in his notebook. "Doesn't really scream serenity anymore."

I turned back to my work, scowling. The tree, once detailed with delicate branches, now looked as though a storm had torn through it. Fitting, I thought bitterly.

"What do you want me to say, Blaise?" I muttered under my breath, jabbing the brush into the water jar. The paint bled out into murky swirls, clouding the clear water.

"I didn't ask you to say anything." He leaned back in his chair, resting the notebook on his knee. "But if I were the one painting like that, I'd at least admit what was bothering me."

I turned to face him, gripping the paintbrush like it might snap. "Nothing is bothering me."

"Sure." Blaise tapped his pen idly against his notebook, his calmness only fueling my irritation.

His words hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. He wasn't wrong. I painted as an escape, pouring my emotions into colors and strokes I couldn't articulate out loud. Today, the brush felt more like a weapon.

"I didn't ask for a physiologist," I said finally, my voice low but sharp.

"Good, because I'm not a physiologist. I'm just observant." Blaise's gaze shifted to my hands. "You're gripping the brush like you're about to stab someone. Want to talk about it or just keep stabbing the poor tree?"

I exhaled sharply, my grip loosening. The brush trembled in my hand before I set it down on the easel's tray. Blaise's calm, probing demeanor was infuriating, but I knew he was right.

"It's Holly," I muttered, almost hoping he wouldn't hear me.

Blaise blinked. "Holly?"

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. "Yes, Holly. She's driving me insane. Always showing up, always talking, always-always finding a way to get through my walls."

"Holly?" Blaise repeated, this time with a hint of amusement. "The Holly who makes you laugh when you think no one's watching? That Holly?"

I scowled at him. "She does not make me laugh."

"Sure." She smirked, leaning forward like he was settling in for a story. "So what's the issue? She's annoying? Too nosy? Too...what, friendly?"

"All of it," I snapped. "She's just- she everywhere. Popping up when I'm trying to focus, saying things that get stuck in my head. She makes me feel..." I trailed off, the words catching in my throat.

Blaise tilted his head, his smirk softening. "Makes you feel what?"

"Weak." I admitted finally. "She doesn't just talk. She sees things. And I hate it."

For a moment, Blaise didn't say anything. His eyes flickered to the canvas, then back to me. "So, she's getting through your walls." He said slowly, like he was testing the words.

"Yeah," I muttered, staring at my ruined tree. "And I can't stop her. No matter what I do, she just keeps...getting in."

Blaise leaned back in his chair, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Sounds exhausting."

"It is," I said, reaching for the paintbrush again.

"But also," Blaise added, "sounds like she's not the problem. Sounds like the problem is that you don't know your feelings."

I shot him a glare, but deep down, I knew he was right. I dipped the brush back into the green paint, my strokes slower this time, more deliberate. Blaise didn't say anything else, just flipped a page in his notebook and let the silence settle between us again.