"No." He pushed off the jungle gym and ambled over, dropping onto the bench across from her. "I'm the guy who steals the art before anyone sees it."
She finally glanced up, pencil hovering. "You're not an artist."
"Is there?"
Viola spotted him from the picnic table, knees tucked under her chin. She wasn't trouble. She was the emergency broadcast system that announced trouble was coming.
"What do you want, Vick?"
"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her sketchbook.
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. vick (aka vincent) and viola from teenburg
The Difference Between Sparks and Wildfires