Cracks in the Frame (Ethan’s POV)

I couldn’t stop replaying the car ride in my head.

The way Dmitri’s voice had gone from warm and teasing to ice-cold in the space of two seconds. One minute we were laughing, my knee brushing his when he shifted gears, the next he was practically shoving me out of the car like I’d done something unforgivable. No explanation. No goodbye. Just that sharp “Get out” that landed like a slap.

I’d walked the last block to the dorm with my stomach in knots, cheeks burning, telling myself it didn’t matter. He was just some guy. A hot, complicated, probably-straight-or-closeted guy who’d kissed me once like the world was ending and then acted like I was invisible the next time we spoke. I’d been here before. I knew the script.

Still, it hurt more than it should have.

By the time I pushed open the door to our tiny shared apartment, Bella was sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and one of my old Sorbonne hoodies, eating cold lo mein straight from the carton with a pair of chopsticks. She looked up the second I walked in, eyebrows shooting up.

“Oh no,” she said immediately. “You’ve got the kicked-puppy face again. Spill.”

I dropped my backpack by the door and collapsed into the armchair opposite her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad. You look like someone just told you they canceled croissants forever.” She set the carton down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Was it Mystery Man? The tall-dark-and-dangerous one who gave you a ride the other day?”

I groaned and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Yes. And no. I don’t even know anymore.”

Bella waited. She was good at that—giving silence space to breathe until the words fell out on their own.

So they did.

I told her about the ride, the easy flirting, the stupid butterflies when he smirked at me and called me flattering. And then the phone buzzing, the sudden snap in his tone, the way he’d gone from looking at me like I was something precious to looking at me like I was a problem he needed to get rid of. Fast.

“He literally told me to get out of the car,” I finished, voice small. “Like I was trash he didn’t want anymore.”

Bella’s mouth twisted. “Okay, first of all, that’s shitty. Second of all… that does not sound like disinterest.”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“Think about it.” She ticked points off on her fingers. “He shows up at your campus unannounced. He offers you a ride. He flirts. He touches your knee—don’t think I didn’t notice you blushing when you told me that part—and then the second something interrupts him, he freaks out and pushes you away.” She shrugged. “Classic playing-hard-to-get. Or maybe playing-scared-to-get-caught. Either way, he’s not bored of you, babe. He’s panicking.”

I stared at her. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” She tilted her head. “You said he looked guilty when he snapped at you. Like he hated himself for it. That’s not the behavior of a guy who doesn’t care. That’s the behavior of a guy who cares too much and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

I wanted to argue. I really did. But the memory of his face right before I slammed the door—jaw tight, eyes shadowed—kept flashing behind my eyelids. Like he was fighting something bigger than me.

“Maybe,” I muttered. “But I’m tired of guessing. I’m tired of feeling like I’m begging for scraps of attention.”

Bella softened. “Then don’t. If he wants you, he knows where to find you. In the meantime…” She reached over and flicked my forehead lightly. “Stop letting him live rent-free in your brain. You’ve got better things to do.”

She was right. Sort of.

The next morning I proved it to myself by actually showing up to class early, sketchbook already open on my lap when Professor Laurent walked in.

He was in one of his dramatic moods—scarf flung over one shoulder, gesturing with both hands as he lectured about decay as aesthetic rebellion. Halfway through, he stopped, clapped once, and grinned like he’d just invented the idea himself.

“Your next project,” he announced, “is titled Urban Decay. I want you to go out into the city. Find the places most people avoid. The rotting piers, the abandoned lots, the alleys where the streetlights don’t reach. Draw what you see. But more than that—draw what you feel when you’re standing there. The beauty in the broken. The violence in the silence. No romanticizing. No I*******m filters. Raw. Honest. Due in three weeks.”

My stomach flipped in a good way. This I could do. This I wanted to do.

After class I lingered by his desk, sketchbook clutched to my chest.

“Professor Laurent? Any suggestions for where to start?”

He beamed at me like I’d asked the perfect question. “There’s a stretch along the East River, near the old warehouses in Greenpoint. Very little foot traffic. Very much forgotten. You’ll feel the weight of the place the second you step onto the cracked pavement.” He tapped his temple. “Trust your gut, Ethan. It’s sharper than you think.”

I thanked him and left feeling lighter than I had in days.

That afternoon I took the subway to Greenpoint, sketchbook and a small pack of charcoal pencils in my bag. The neighborhood smelled like salt and motor oil and something faintly sour, like old metal left out in the rain. I wandered past chain-link fences tagged with faded graffiti, past boarded-up loading docks and rusted shipping containers. It was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like the city had decided to hold its breath here.

I found a spot near the water—an empty lot bordered by crumbling brick walls and a sagging chain-link fence. Beyond it, the East River moved slow and dark, reflecting the bruised purple of the late-afternoon sky. I sat on an overturned crate, opened my sketchbook, and started drawing.

The lines came fast. Jagged edges of broken concrete. A single rusted fire escape clinging to the side of a warehouse like it was trying to escape. Shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. I didn’t think about Dmitri. Not consciously. But somewhere between the second and third page, I realized the figure I’d started sketching in the foreground—half-hidden behind a stack of rotting pallets—was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling into his eyes. I hadn’t meant to draw him. My hand had just… remembered.

I stared at the rough outline of his profile, charcoal smudged where my thumb had tried to soften the line of his jaw.

“Stupid,” I whispered to myself, and started to tear the page out.

That’s when I heard the low rumble of an engine.

I looked up.

A black SUV had pulled up at the far end of the lot. Two men stepped out—both in dark jackets, both moving with that careful, predatory awareness I’d only ever seen in security footage or movies. One of them lit a cigarette. The other scanned the area, gaze sliding right over me like I was part of the scenery.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

I closed the sketchbook slowly, trying to look casual, like I belonged here. Like I wasn’t suddenly very aware that I was alone in a place most people avoided for good reason.

The smoker said something in low Russian—I recognized the cadence even if I didn’t understand the words. The other man laughed once, short and sharp.

I stood up, brushing charcoal dust off my jeans, and started walking back toward the street. Not running. Just… leaving. Purposefully.

I didn’t look back.

But I felt eyes on me the whole way.

By the time I reached the subway platform my hands were shaking. Not from fear, exactly. From something else. Recognition, maybe. The realization that the world Dmitri moved in wasn’t abstract or distant. It was here. In the same rotting corners I was trying to draw. Close enough to touch.

I leaned against the tiled wall and closed my eyes.

Bella was wrong.

This wasn’t playing hard to get.

This was playing with fire.

And I was starting to think I’d already been burned.