"Is there?"
He tilted his head. For a second, the smirk flickered. "Honestly? I don't know yet. That's what scares me."
Viola didn't flinch. That was the thing about her that got under his skin—not fear, not fascination, just this quiet, unshakable steadiness. She closed her sketchbook. vick (aka vincent) and viola from teenburg
The Difference Between Sparks and Wildfires
And for the first time that evening, Vincent—not Vick the ghost, not Vick the shadow—smiled like he meant it. "Is there
"I'm observing." Vick's voice had that lazy drawl, like he had all the time in the world to figure her out. "There's a difference."
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. I don't know yet
"Staring's what amateurs do. Observing's what artists do."