“Yeah,” I said quietly. “That sounds hard.” I didn’t push or ask for more. I just stood beside him.
“Thanks,” he muttered eventually. It wasn’t much, but I knew what it cost him to say it. For now, I’d take it.
I ended up next to Walker again, and when he shifted slightly, his arm brushed mine, and for a second, I thought he’d pull away. Instead, he leaned in a little, his weight settling closer. I didn’t know what it meant—if it meant anything—maybe he was looking for a connection, but it didn’t mean there was anything between us.
Not that there could be.
Still, I let myself stay there, not speaking to him, just sitting in the comfort of his quiet presence as we listened to Arnaud harassing the barista in French again with Bob beside him, elbowing his side.
“Will you draw us again, this time in our team colors?” Taft asked, then slid over a box of colored pencils and an art pad, clearly prepared.
“You shouldn’t ask that,” Walker warned. “He’s off the clock?—”
“It’s okay,” I cut him off, reassuring him. “I love art.”
I glanced at Walker, and he immediately dropped his gaze. Where was confident Walker? What happened since last week?
I picked up a pencil and began sketching light, swift lines to capture the way Taft hunched in on himself, Arnaud’s exaggerated pout, Chip’s crooked smile, and Bob’s ever-presentscowl. The others drifted closer, crowding around the table, leaning in with interest, offering comments like we were all just killing time at a diner instead of sitting in mandatory team therapy.
“Make my hair cooler,” Arnaud joked, fluffing the already perfect wave that flopped artfully across his forehead.
“You wish,” Bob teased.
Arnaud didn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Bob. You’ve got two settings: scowl and rage. Maybe I can lend you a hair product or a personality.”
Bob snorted. “Don’t need product when your head’s already full of hot air.”
“Oh, please,” Arnaud shot back, still smiling, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Is this about earlier? You still mad because I made you look in touch with your feelings for five seconds?”
“Keep pushing, Arnaud,” Bob warned, his voice low, jaw working as if he was grinding down the edge of something sharper. “See how that works out for you.”
Arnaud leaned in, resting an elbow on the table. “I’m just saying, maybe if you stopped treating every conversation like a fistfight, someone might actually like you.”
“Better to be real than fake,” Bob snapped. “People see right through your charm. Hell, they probably see through you.”
The table went quiet. Even Taft froze mid-laugh, eyes wide.
I kept my pencil moving, pretending not to feel the air thicken between them, tension coiled like a spring.
And then Chip, bless him, mumbled, “Statistically, conflict during group art therapy results in a 27 percent decrease in perceived emotional safety. Just saying.”
There was a beat of silence.
Taft choked on a laugh.
Arnaud blinked, then pulled back, hands raised in mock surrender. “See? The science is against you, Bob.”
Bob grumbled something under his breath but said nothing.
Crisis averted. For now.
Walker stayed back, arms crossed, watching quietly. His gaze wasn’t on the paper but on me, eyes hooded as if lost in thought. The others drifted away, tired from the day’s class, but Walker remained.
“How do you want me to draw you?” I asked, hoping to coax him into something lighter, easier
Walker blinked, clearly caught off guard, eyes wide, when he realized it was just the two of us at the table. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Like… me, I guess.”
“Okay,” I said softly, but I didn’t begin the sketch immediately. “You serious, though? Because I can draw you heroic like a Marvel poster or mysterious like one of those shadowy noir guys.” I paused, pretending to assess him with an exaggerated squint. “Or, you know, super casual: hoodie, coffee cup, that whole moody vibe you’ve got going.”
