So usually whenever I post a oneshot, I say it's trash, and it is trash, but it's my useless discarded matter, and I'm always a little proud, you know? I'm not in any way proud of this. Not one bit. It's horrible. Vote and comment! Hope you enjoy :)

@Griffin0123 Here is my disappointing entry :)

Sophie couldn't draw. She never drew. At the age of nine, she'd learned about soulmatism and vowed to practice her drawing skills — or lack thereof — until she turned fourteen. At fourteen, anything she drew would show up on her soulmate's skin, and honestly, that'd be terrifying. Who wanted stick figures on their skin?

For five years she told herself she'd do it. But there was always something in the way, something she had to do before, and there was always enough time later. Or maybe that was what she told herself so she wouldn't have to deal with failing.

Now she was seventeen. She hadn't drawn once in the last three years. Not a sketch, not a doodle, not a scribble, nothing. How angry would her soulmate be with her if she ruined their clean skin with a beastly monstrosity she claimed to be a simple butterfly?

Writing didn't count, of course, and though she didn't know exactly how this whole soulmate thing worked, she was grateful not to have pages upon pages of homework inked upon her skin. Sometimes cursive was mistaken for art, as well, but that didn't happen very often, and nor was it as mortifying as what could've been.

She had heard of stories about several whose handwriting were so terrible, it was mistaken for a scribble of some sort, and now there were people walking on the earth with grocery lists scrawled along their legs. Nightmares haunted her for years, and she spent ages perfecting her handwriting, keeping it slow and readable.

If her soulmate had a list of People Sophie Hates Tremendously inked permanently on their skin, she wasn't sure how they'd react when they found her. Especially if they were on that list.

Thankfully, her soulmate must have kept their handwriting comprehensible, too. Only glorious sketches of tigers, and turtles (she was pretty sure her soulmate loved turtles after how many they'd drawn), and flowers, and an assortment of beautiful views graced her skin along her forearm, her back, her shoulders, and sometimes the most discreet sides of her ankles.

She wasn't sure why they weren't as cute as her best friend/cousin Dex's, who had an adorable grinning smurf on his right inner wrist and a little band of singing mushrooms on his left one, or why they weren't as obvious as Marella's — who found her soulmate immediately after she found Linh Song inked across her shoulder — or why they weren't as goofy as Jensi's, whose now-boyfriend had sketched an adorable dragon sticking its tongue out across the whiteboard in their eighth grade class, and Jensi had watched the very moment the inky black veins ran along his arm at the same time. Watching it in the very moment it was drawn was rare.

And, of course, her own adoptive parents, the Ruewens' story, was the story she'd heard most. They'd practically grown up together since seventh grade — in fact, her mother had found her father infuriating until they'd graduated high school.

Everything her mother, Edaline, had drawn was careful, delicate, gentle, and strong, just like her.

Her father, on the other hand, declared, as any lovesick teenage boy would, that soulmatism had absolutely no power over him. Listen, whoever you are, soulmate, I like Edaline, and I always will, he'd written in messy cursive. Deal with it. -Grady Ruewen.

Edaline, who'd been sitting across the classroom, had watched in shock as it scrawled across her upper right arm, strolled straight up to him, slapped him straight across the face, and told him to take drawing lessons instead of trying to cheat the code with childish cursive. Apparently even the teacher was laughing too hard to scold her.

They'd been madly in love ever since.

The problem was, after learning Sophie had been intensively careful to keep from drawing or painting or sketching or even doodling, the Ruewens enrolled her in an art class. They wouldn't listen to a word she protested.

Your soulmate won't mind if they really care for you, they'd said. Besides, if they do hate it so much, it's their problem. It shouldn't stop you from doing what you want.

She'd been in an art class for three years; her parents had successfully gotten her to draw absolutely nothing. (A round of applause for their remarkable efforts, please.)

Now she was staring at the first page of her blank sketchbook the way she had since Day One and letting her mind wander to the conversations drifting around her.

"You must be lost."

"Huh?" Sophie snapped back to focus to find a boy peering over her shoulder with curious ice-blue eyes, his artfully tousled blond hair falling onto his forehead a bit. Her favorite part about him, though, was the little, perfectly mischievous smirk gracing his lips. She liked the way it suited him so well, the way it made his eyes twinkle; she'd never tell him that though. "Er, no. I'm just thinking."

"You've been staring at that page for the last five minutes. Now, what could you be thinking about? Calculating how to get to the door? How many sharpened pencils you can throw at everyone's eyes? If the answer's ten, that's impressive, but I bet I can do fifteen." Keefe smirked, pulling out a chair next to her and scooting onto it. "Are you okay, Foster?"

She sighed. "I'm fine."

"Ah, yes," he said, holding up her sketchbook and studying it like it was the most important masterpiece he'd ever seen in his life. He did that all the time. It used to annoy her, but now she kind of looked forward to the little crease forming between his brows as he tilted his head in interest. "The familiar classic. 'Polar Bear In A Snowstorm.' Immaculate, as always."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Actually, this time I've titled it, 'How I Feel About Keefe Sencen.'"

He set the paper down, frowning. "But there's nothing there."

She smiled, taking some satisfaction in his bewildered indignation. "Exactly."

Keefe rolled his eyes, holding up the sketchbook again the way her dad read the newspaper. "Answer me honestly. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She didn't think he believed her. He knew her too well, her 'tells' when she lied, the tiredness lacing her voice when she avoided his gaze. She wanted to ask him how he caught them, how he could capture every detail, but then again, that was what made him an artist.

Keefe hadn't been teaching the classes for long, but he'd always attended them as long as she had, probably longer. She doubted he'd even been a part of the class, or that his parents knew he was attending them. He never even learned from the old teacher, either. If anything, she was usually learning from him; she'd just let him stick around and sit in the corner to draw what he wished.

And then she'd left and Keefe had decided to take up the job. On the first day, the students had asked him, Why are you teaching if you're so young?

He'd been seventeen.

But he'd merely shrugged and offered a handsome grin. I'm getting paid, students are getting taught, and my parents don't have me around the house as much anymore. Everyone's happy.

Now he'd been teaching for nearly a year. Most of the girls and half the boys in the class constantly made fools out of themselves to impress him — and Sophie could bet he knew it and knew it well, but he didn't acknowledge it. Most of his compliments were one-word praises and constructive criticism; still, it left them glowing with smiles and blushing with pride.

She would call them idiots if she didn't have to admit to herself she'd do the same if she were them.

"Okay," Keefe said, straightening to look directly at her, "then tell me why you won't draw anything."

"I never draw anything," she countered, reaching for her sketchbook, but he held it out of her reach. "You know that, Keefe."

"Draw something for me, then." He smirked when she lunged for her sketchbook and nearly crashed into him, missing entirely.

"Show me one of your drawings, and maybe I will." She pulled herself off her chair and made her way around him to grab her sketchbook. He never showed her his drawings — although, from the way the old teacher had constantly complimented him, she assumed they were amazing.

Keefe transferred the book to his other hand, and, pretending he hadn't seen her outrage, continued casually, "Show me one of your drawings, and maybe I'll show you one of mine."

"Sucks to be you. You want what I have more than I want what you have." Sophie scowled when he stood from his own stool and held the sketchbook behind his back.

"You still haven't told me why you don't draw."

Conversation forgotten, her eyes narrowed towards the book in his hand, constructing a half-baked plan as fast as she could; the blond-haired boy seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, though, because, the moment she reached for it again, he ducked out of the way.

He was laughing. Ugh, why was his laugh so infuriatingly handsome? His eyes danced with humor when they met hers, with beautiful secrets she longed to explore.

"Give it back!"

"Answer my question, Foster." He backed away when she stalked closer, his signature smirk gracing his lips.

"You never asked a question," she told him truthfully, striding closer before he could slip out of reach until he was pressed against the wall. Finally. Now he'd have no choice but to —

Shoot, he was taller than her. He held the sketchbook above her head, silently taunting her with temptations more than he knew. His hair gleamed in the lights, and his lips were graced with a devious grin so endearing, it took all her will to keep from smiling back shyly.

"That's fair," he said thoughtfully. "Why won't you draw anything?"

"I can't draw," she admitted, fixing her gaze upon the sketchbook as she made her way closer until he had no way out. Now she just had to find a way to reach that high. Jumping would just make her look like an imbecile; she'd never been tall enough to reach as far as he could, and he knew it.

Keefe tilted his head mischievously, quirking up an eyebrow in the familiar teasing expression she'd gotten to know in the last four years; he was unfairly hot and he knew it. "I bet you can."

"Not very well." Before he could slip around her, out of her reach once more, her fingers curled over the collar of his untucked shirt, pinning him against the wall. "Give me my sketchbook, Keefe."

His tousled blond hair was still falling onto the side of his forehead a bit; she could barely resist the urge to brush it away and let her fingers linger along his jawline. His grin widened as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe let me go first, Foster."

"You stole it," she protested, but she knew he knew her heart was scrambling at the close proximity. All she had to do was simply lift her head, close her eyes, and they'd be near enough to ki — Shut up, self. "Give it back and maybe I'll let you go."

"Mm, tempting." He didn't look very tempted. "But, uh . . ." His voice lowered just enough that only Sophie could hear it. "Look around."

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, he was the same boy as he had been when he was fourteen. Just as teasing, as flirtatious, as unbelievably handsome, as mischievous, and he knew it all. The whole room had gone silent with anticipation, and suddenly she could feel the gazes of every student in the art class fixated upon them, calling on a blush she knew she couldn't hide.

She groaned loudly, pulling away and rubbing her temples. Her blonde locks tumbled around her like a curtain of gold. "You are so annoying, Keefe Sencen, you know that?"

Some of the newbies gasped. Everyone else shushed them, almost as invested in her love life as her mother.

"Uh huh," Keefe said triumphantly, pretending like he hadn't noticed a thing. "Now, will you answer me?"

Sophie glanced at her bare wrist. "Oh, look at that! Where has the time gone? I need my sketchbook back."

He laughed, reading the clock on the wall across the room. "I guess you're right." He glanced at the class, brushing off the way they gaped at them. "Alright, class is over. I'll see you guys next class. Have a nice week!"

Wait, really? She didn't even realize, lost in his teasing tone.

"And you," he said to her as the class tucked away their sketchbooks and pencils and began to file out of the room. "I will figure it out, you know."

"You haven't been able to for the last three years," she replied, snatching back the sketchbook when he offered it to her.

He laughed again, and this time it sounded so much sweeter, so much more real. She couldn't help the shy grin that tugged upon her lips; it was her favorite music; the most beautiful laugh in the world. She remembered how she used to wish she could spend more than once a week with him just so she could hear that laugh. Her plan had gone completely wrong, and she kept stammering when she tried to ask him to hang out with her, but he'd only smirked and offered a little wink, and she'd thought she'd failed miserably. The next day, he'd showed up at her house, and they spent nearly every other day with each other — at least until she realized she actually had a soulmate, and there was no way Keefe Sencen was her other half.

Not other half, she reminded herself.

Soulmates weren't what completed you.

You complete you, her parents had told her. Don't spend your entire life looking for someone to fix you if you aren't broken.

In fact, a lot of people went their entire lives without looking for or being with their soulmates. It was nothing new. Soulmates were just . . . friends. Lovers. Someone who'll stick with you the whole way as you help one another complete your journeys and find yourselves.

Her aunt Juline and uncle Kesler — Dex's parents — weren't soulmates, but they still loved each other to the world's end.

It helped a little, knowing she could be with Keefe even if he wasn't her soulmate, but why would he want to be with her? She was just a nerd who tried to blend in with everyone else. She wasn't much of a sight, not the way he was; what, with the kindness swirled in his humor like sugar in steaming coffee, the affectionate care behind his prankster facade, the simple but not untrue fact that he was inconceivably hot? She wasn't the only one who'd noticed him, that was for sure.

He was the only one who noticed her.

"Goodnight, Foster," Keefe called as he wandered to the door that led to his little office.

"'Night, Keefe," she mumbled, shaking herself out of her thoughts as she shoved her sketchbook into her bag.

The door closed behind him, and she realized she was alone in the room. But she didn't want to leave yet. She liked being around Keefe, as much as she hated to admit it. She liked watching his smile play upon his lips, being in his arms that felt like home. She liked how her heart jumped at his warmth, and her fingers itched to tangle with his whenever he was around.

Before she could stop herself, she slung her bag over her shoulder and knocked on his door.

"Er, come in?" He sounded a bit surprised.

The door opened with a gentle groan and she peered in with wide eyes to find Keefe sitting in a comfortable swivel-chair, feet propped up on his desk.

"Foster? What's up?"

"Um. Well — uh . . ." She didn't think this through very well. Funny how she could create an elaborate, step-by-step scheme for the littlest things, but when it came to Keefe Sencen, she could barely think straight.

A small crease formed between his eyebrows; he pulled his feet off the desk and stood. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I just . . ." There was a mug filled with pencils on his desk, the one she'd gotten him for his birthday last year.

Keefe raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The top button of his shirt was unclasped, only adding to the artfully disheveled look of his. "I was just . . . wondering something."

"Which is . . . ?" he prompted when she didn't continue; she couldn't help the whisper of a smile tugging at the edges of her lips when she saw a little bracelet draped around a Toothless figurine.

She'd made the friendship bracelet years ago but it no longer fit him. The figurine she'd gifted him after finals last year when his irritating blobfish-faced donkey of a father had told him he was useless, and all she wanted was to see that goofy grin of his. He'd made her a friendship bracelet, too. It was too small now, hanging on her purse's keychain back home.

"How can you draw?" she blurted. At his startled expression, she said, "I mean, aren't you afraid? What if you mess up? What if it turns out awful? What if your soulmate thinks it's disgusting, and they hate you for permanently inking their skin with it?" She paused. "Wait, who am I kidding, you're an art teacher. Your art is probably beautiful."

"Is . . . Is that what you're afraid of?" His gaze didn't move from hers, piercing and steadfast as he made his way to her; he didn't stop until he was close enough she could see every faint freckle spattered across the bridge of his nose. She never knew he had freckles. They were almost indiscernible, but kind of cute.

She nodded silently, avoiding his eyes.

"Why do you care what they think?"

"Because what if — ?" What if she was going to spend the rest of her life with them? What if she had to live the rest of time knowing they hated her because she had approximately zero talent? Would it even be fair to do that to them? What if they don't want —

"Who cares?" he said quietly.

"I . . ." She still couldn't look at him. "I do."

He was quiet for a moment. And then he tilted his head. She liked it when he looked at her like that, like she was the most interesting artwork he'd ever seen, and all he wanted was to piece together her secrets. "Making a mistake doesn't make you a failure." His fingers caressed her jaw, forcing her to look directly at his enchanting ice-blue eyes. "You hear me, Foster? You are not a failure. You're perfect." He paused. "Perfect the — the way you are, I mean. Because — well, everyone's, like — I mean, you are perfect, but — er . . . Look, that sounded a bit more sappy than I —"

She laughed a little. "It was sweet. Thank you."

He ducked his head shyly, laughing with her.

They were . . . close. They were really close. He must have realized it, too; he took an awkward step back. But she liked being near him, the care he offered; she took a step forward.

What am I doing?

Keefe cleared his throat, his gaze darting to the floor. Their boots were only a few inches apart. "Um — ahem. You know that even if you do make a mistake, you can erase it, right?"

Sophie stared at him. "What?"

"Yeah. Soulmatism knows us. We make mistakes all the time. Doesn't mean we have to live with it forever like it's the worst thing in the world."

"No," she said, stomping on the spark of hope that had begun to rise inside her. "No, that doesn't — that's not true. There was this kid in my eighth grade class who drew on the whiteboard and when the teacher erased it, his soulmate still had the drawing on his arm. It's not true —"

"If you draw it, you have to erase it. If someone else erases it, it won't go away." He tilted his head curiously, and she had the unnerving sense of being scrutinized in the faint gold light of his lamp. "Did nobody tell you that?"

She shook her head numbly.

"Oh. So were you just expected to be perfect all the time?"

"No!" She shook her head again. "Of course not. You've met my parents. They'd never say things like that."

Keefe was still gazing at her like he could pry apart every secret she held, but it didn't scare her, for once. She'd give them all away to him freely, even if she knew he'd give them away, too; it didn't scare her to be vulnerable around him. No matter how much he teased her, he'd never hurt her.

"Yeah," he murmured to the floor. "Your parents are nice." He smirked, eyes flickering with amusement. "Even Grady, despite how much he threatens me."

Sophie winced when he grinned. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's . . . weirdly nice." He hesitated when her eyebrows drew together. "I mean, not the threatening part, but the way they care so much for you. It's . . . it's a real family. They really love you, Foster."

She smiled, fidgeting with her pencil. "Yeah. Sometimes a bit too much. That's why they enrolled me in this wretched class."

Keefe laughed. "You really hate it that much?"

"Well, it's just a waste of money. I never draw, and I never will. That's just the way things are. Only one good thing came from this class, and that's you." She stopped. "Er —"

Keefe laughed again, but it was tentative, careful, and his eyes focused intently on the floor like the tiling and interior design was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. His cheeks were dusted with a hint of pink, and he was running a hand through his tousled blond hair, but nobody ever rendered Keefe Sencen speechless. "I think good is an understatement. I mean, I'm a masterpiece in and of myself. Both the sun and Fitz Vacker lost the hotness competition when I entered, you know —"

"Oh, shut up, Keefe," she told him, a giggle slipping past her lips before she could hide it.

"Ah, you love me," he teased.

Yeah, I do.

"Hey," he said gently before she could respond, "you — do you want to try drawing, now? Just a sketch. You can erase it if you don't like it, but just try."

He seemed to take her hesitation as acquiescence, for he grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, and led her around his desk to sit on a wooden stool in front of his own sketchbook opened to a blank page despite her reluctance.

"But I can't draw!"

"Everyone can draw."

"I'm not everyone."

"You're better than everyone," he replied without missing a beat as he took her pencil and set it aside, replacing it with a sharpened one. Does he really mean that? Surely not. She didn't think he realized the way his words shocked her in place, sparking her heart into overdrive. "Come on," he said softly. "Don't worry about what other people think. Screw the world. Your soulmate could just be a piece of snot-encrusted goose droppings anyways —"

"Keefe!"

His voice grew soft — no, tender, almost, when he whispered, "We're the only people who matter right now. It's just you and me, Foster. Draw for yourself."

"What do I draw?"

"Um. I don't know. A turtle. I like turtles. They're cute, the way they hide when they're scared. Sort of reminds me of you."

Did he just call her cute? "Did you just call me a turtle?"

He laughed softly, and she could feel the puff of warmth of his breath against the side of her neck. "Quit stalling, Foster."

Sophie stared at the pencil in her hand, the weight of the variegated wood, the dark gray tip of graphite glinting in the faint light. All she wanted was to put the tip to paper, to let her fingers guide her pencil across the paper like blooming flowers across rolling fields, but she couldn't move. Next to the weight of the pencil, heavy invisible chains tied her to the ground. No matter how much she tried to ignore the watching gazes, she knew they were there. No matter what she did, she wasn't drawing for herself. She would never draw for herself, not after she turned fourteen and the world forced its influence on her shaking shoulders.

"Pretend you're thirteen, again," Keefe whispered into her ear. She could feel him behind her, his lips brushing against her hair, and she shivered against his comforting arms. Maybe if she leaned into him she'd be able to hear his heart beat and let hers follow the rhythm like its own dance with fire and ice. "There's no one there to tell you who to be. You're just a kid, Sophie. You can create what you want. The world is your parchment and your creativity is the ink that'll never run dry."

The world is your parchment.

It was hard, knowing everything she did would be seen and judged, no matter how much she pretended it didn't matter. It put her mind in a cage she didn't want to climb out of because there was a whole world out there, a world of raging ice and storm. Sometimes it was safer to stay prisoner.

Unless . . . unless she was with Keefe. In his arms, she could face the world and win.

She was still staring at the pencil, though. She couldn't bring it to the paper.

You've never been able to change.

Besides, what if — what if he was wrong?

You never will.

The blond-haired boy sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and shifted so that his arms were around her, one of his hands resting on hers, and the other on the table. He took the hand that held the pencil and guided it towards the page. Something was different, off, but it was hard to tell.

She barely noticed. She could feel his lips grazing her ear, jolting lightning through her veins, and her stomach twisted itself expertly into more knots than there were pages in a library.

"See?" he said softly, directing her hand to sketch the arc of a turtle's shell. "Simple."

"But aren't you the one drawing?"

"You're the one holding the pencil."

Huh. She couldn't help but notice how he smelled like fresh-baked cookies; it reminded her of the contrast of swirling snow enveloping the world outside and the golden firelight glowing from the windows inside. He felt like home. It took all she had to keep from leaning into his chest.

Within minutes, he'd gotten her to sketch an adorable turtle peering out of its shell with wide eyes. "Look at that, Foster. I knew you'd be able to do it."

Sophie bit her lip as he let go of her hand and let her set aside the pencil; she grabbed his hand before he could pull away fully. She wasn't sure what she was doing, but she didn't want him to pull away yet. Besides, there was something about him, something she couldn't quite place, something she'd never noticed before.

"Hey." He tightened his grip. "It turned out amazing. I'm proud of you. You're braver than you think, you know."

His skin. It was blank. His bare skin along the top button of his shirt, the clean, noticeably-ink-free forearms . . . he didn't have any tattoos. What? No, that didn't make any sense. How was that possible? Soulmates were basically nonexistent before the age of fourteen, and if anyone died after fourteen, their soulmate received a small skull tattoo on the side of their neck as tribute. But Keefe, he had nothing. Nothing. Not a single drawing, or sketch, or mark. It was . . . strange.

She was staring.

Keefe must have noticed, for he let go of her hand instantly and rolled his sleeves back down, looking at everything that wasn't her. It was like she was watching the entire world go dim in just a moment. His world. He cleared his throat, and the softness that had once blanketed the room turned rigid with tension; he'd pulled his guard back up.

He'd stopped doing that around her when he was fifteen.

"Keefe —"

"You drew," he interrupted, drawing away. "Nice job, Foster. I'm excited to see what you'll make next time."

"But —"

"You should go. I'm sure your parents are waiting for you."

"Wait."

He looked at her, a bitter smile playing upon his lips; pure, raw pain flashed like lightning behind his eyes. His heart was aching. She didn't need to hear it to know it was hardly beating right.

She pulled herself off her stool, and took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. Grounding him. Aiding him. Promising him, I'm right here. "Why don't you have any tattoos?"

He hesitated, swallowing. "I don't . . . I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I've never gotten a tattoo. I don't think I even have a soulmate."

"That doesn't —"

"— make any sense, I know." He sighed, running his hand through his hair as he scooted onto the desk, next to her sketchbook, to face her. "I must be some sort of glitch in the system. A mistake."

"What? No, soulmates aren't made by some mindless androids." She started to pull her hand back, but he held her fingers tighter; he didn't want her to let go. She didn't. "There's no such thing as a glitch."

"Then what am I?" He grasped her hand with both of his, silently begging her to say what he wanted her to hear even though he knew it wasn't true. "What am I, Sophie? Why wouldn't I have any tattoos? The only answer is that I'm a mistake. A failure. More reason for my parents to think I'm a disappointment."

Sophie swallowed. She wanted to speak, but what could she say? "You're not a disappointment, Keefe."

"Yeah, I am." He sounded tired. Too tired. Maybe if she could pull him close, hold him forever, she could show him the stars, the way they aligned when she was with him. Maybe she could tell him how she felt around him, how he meant more to her than words meant to stories, than melodies meant to songs, than anything in the world. Maybe he'd even understand.

"No," she insisted.

"I am. It's why I draw so much. Maybe if I can draw enough, fill up my soulmate's skin with enough of my works, I can recognize them anywhere. But it's been four years. I haven't found them. I'm used to it." He smiled ruefully, desperation lacing the burning ice in his gaze. "It's alright. Really."

"I disagree," she whispered, pulling closer to him.

She was being selfish, she knew, but . . . but if he didn't have a certain someone, he could be with anyone. Maybe he didn't have a soulmate because he deserved the world. She didn't care why. If he didn't have a soulmate, then maybe, just maybe, he . . . he could be with her. And she hated the way a little part of her jumped to attention at that, the insensitive bit that only cared about her, but it was human, she supposed, and besides, maybe . . .

Sophie slipped her hands around his neck, letting them run through his satin-soft blond hair as she pulled him close and kissed him.

Kissed him furiously.

He didn't get to tell her he was a failure. Nobody could say he was a disappointment. Nobody could say he was a mistake. He was perfect.

He was perfect.

Screw her soulmate, screw the world. He was everything that mattered, everything that made sense, everything glorious, and if anyone tried to tell her otherwise, she'd drop them off the edge of the world.

And then he was kissing her back, arms strong around her waist as he tugged her closer.

She pulled herself against his chest; she didn't want to stop. Her mind had shut down as nervous flames curled around her heart and set it ablaze. The world could explode around her for all she cared; the only thing that mattered was his arms around her, his lips against hers, and that charming smile of his she couldn't get out of her head.

But then he pulled back, breathless. It took him a moment to regain his composure, and she let herself enjoy the way he gaped at her — after all, what a feat! She'd managed to leave Keefe Sencen speechless. "What . . ." His gaze locked with hers, round and frozen. "What did you do?"

There was no good answer to that, so she bit her lip and said nothing.

"Foster, you —"

"I know," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "I-I know I probably have a soulmate, but I don't care. I want to be with you. My aunt and uncle, they weren't soulmates, but they're a perfect match. Keefe —"

"What would people think if you — ?"

"Who cares? You said it yourself!" she whispered, running her fingers along his soft hair. "Who cares? We're the only ones that matter right now!"

Keefe slipped his fingers around hers and pulled them away; she'd never seen him look so devoid of joy, of humor before. "You don't understand, Sophie."

Understand what? Didn't he realize how much she loved him?

"Oh," she whispered with a sinking feeling when she realized what he was saying. He didn't want her.

She tried not to let it hurt too much. He did, after all, have a whole world to choose from, but a little part of her had always thought he cared. A little part of her thought maybe she meant something to him, something beyond soulmates and drawing, something beyond the understanding of anyone who wasn't them. She wondered if the last three years she'd spent falling for this boy, he'd spent trying to push her away.

"I see."

"No!" he said instantly, grabbing both her hands in his. Wasn't he just trying to push me away? "No, no, Foster, that's not what I meant either. I . . ." His gaze met hers; she used to see the whole universe behind that glacier blue. The stars swirling like dancers, the galaxy trailing across the sky, the most important stories, they all had a home in him the way she did.

But the stars had gone dim, the stories left unwritten, and he looked so sad.

"I get it." She'd been moving things too far, too fast, and she'd been wrong. Of course he could hurt her. If she gave him a knife and her heart, how was it fair of her to expect him to use that dagger to keep it safe? She never should've done anything. "I do, Keefe. I-I'm really sorry, I just thought . . ." What did she think? "Never mind."

"No," he whispered again. He dropped his eyes to their hands and hesitated. "I . . . this isn't fair. I shouldn't — it's not fair of me to say this, but Foster, I . . ." He studied her, begging her to understand what he wasn't saying. He seemed . . . lonely, if anything. "I do like you," he whispered nervously after seconds passed, or maybe hours, eternities. "No, I — I love you. I'm in love with you, and I've been in love with you for years." He had? Oh, how she wanted to kiss him again, to press her lips to his and pretend like the world no longer existed. Did it? She didn't know anymore. The only thing that matters is him. "But being with someone who isn't your soulmate is one thing. Being with a glitch? A mistake? I shouldn't even be here, and my parents waste no time to make sure I know that every day. You shouldn't . . . you don't deserve that."

"Nor do —" She stopped.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

And she was laughing. She couldn't help it. It was crazy — no, amazing, how this soulmate thing worked. It wasn't made by some mindless android. It wasn't created by people, humans who made mistakes all the time. It was magic, real magic, almost as enchanting as Keefe Sencen himself.

It knew who she belonged with.

There she was, there he was, a girl who never drew, and a boy who had nothing drawn on his skin. There they were, standing in front of the first drawing she'd ever created, forbidden love blooming like wildfire.

And there it was, the tiniest of tiny drawings, that same turtle sketch inked under his collarbone where his first button was unclasped. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before in the dancing shadows of the lamp.

"What . . . why are you — what's going on?" Keefe said, bewildered. He flinched at her laughter, looking a bit hurt.

"I love you, Keefe Sencen. I love you, and I always have, and I won't forget you, even until the stars burn out and beyond," she announced, bouncing on the heels of her feet, giddy with joy. She paused. "And I realize I might be going a little far, but . . ." But looking into your eyes, I would run to the furthest ends of the world for you.

"I don't think you realize what I'm saying," he said slowly, backing away when she stepped forward, but he was pressed against the desk with nowhere to go.

"You aren't a mistake! I mean, you never were. And even if we weren't soulmates I'd still love you no matter what, of course —"

"If? Foster, what are you —"

"We're so stupid!" she exclaimed. It all worked. It all made sense. It all fit together like glass puzzle pieces, and she'd been looking right through it, searching for the truth beyond the windows. She pushed up her sweater sleeve to reveal a beautiful, picturesque tiger on her forearm. "Did you draw this? You did, didn't you? And — and this one —" She unzipped her sweater slightly to tug the neckline aside and reveal an ornate roaring dragon emerging from the water, the most brilliant picture she'd ever seen. "This one's my favorite."

Keefe stood there, stunned as she gazed up at him; she couldn't wipe off the goofy smile clambering its way upon her expression. His lips moved, but nothing came past.

She giggled before she could stop herself, throwing her arms around him and burying her head in his neck. She was giggling. What was this boy doing to her? She never wanted him to stop. "Keefe, we're soulmates. We're soulmates!"

She still couldn't believe it.

And then Keefe was grinning that handsome grin, too, laughing as he lifted her off her feet, spun her around, and kissed her.

Kissed her furiously, like the whole world was exploding, but he didn't care.

And nor did she.

|<<>>|

They'd sat there for a bit, holding each other as she rested her head on the turtle tattoo inked below his collarbone, listening to his heartbeat.

Or maybe beat wasn't the proper word. It sounded too vigorous, too angry.
Whatever his heart was doing, it was like the rest of him: perfectly smooth, gentle, and steady. Every step had a purpose, despite how unkempt it might have seemed; it was fast, but relaxed, somehow. His arms were sturdy around her, promising to catch her if she fell. And Lord knew she was falling. Falling for him.

"Sophie?" called a voice from outside his little office.

Sophie's eyes widened. "That's my aunt. Oh, I completely forgot! My dad's busy, and my mom's out with my sister — Aunt Juline was supposed to pick me up today!"

(Have I mentioned I am obsessed with — er, love the Dizznees? Because I do. Don't be surprised if every oneshot I create here on out has a Dizznee in it ;))

"You should go, then." Keefe's voice was startlingly quiet. She glimpsed at him, searching for a clue behind his expression, but he seemed calmer than ever; she didn't understand.

When she didn't move, a hint of a smirk graced his lips, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

Oh. He was waiting for her to move, but he knew she didn't want to; his gaze met hers expectantly.

Ugh. Reluctantly, she pulled back.

"I'll — I'm right here, Aunt Juline!" she called. Lord, what was wrong with her? Why couldn't she look away from him? Why couldn't she pull away and let him go, knowing she'd see him in a week anyways?

But a week was way too long when all she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and bury her head in his shoulder forever; to let time and its disciples wander past them without a second glance.

"I, uh. I guess I have to go." She laughed an awkward laugh, though she wasn't sure why. "I'll see you next week then?"

She started away, but, at the last second, Keefe caught her hand, meeting her gaze with a blazing fire inside that glacier blue like the last dying flames of sunset determined to stay a bit longer. "I love you, Sophie Foster."

She smiled to herself, basking in the warmth of his words as her voice dropped to a whisper. "I love you, too, Keefe."

"Friday, four o'clock, the coffee shop outside your neighborhood?" His words were rushed, nearly piling on top of each other, but she understood gibberish fluently and spoke it eloquently.

"Absolutely," she said, pulling back and kissing him one last time before she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and leave him behind. "See you Friday."

"See you Friday," he repeated, watching her go with a stupid grin lingering on his expression that he couldn't keep from coming.

"Oh, there you are!" Juline said from across the room. Her silky amber waves tumbled over her shoulders, pinned back by a small gold fastener, and there was a small green-blue flower tucked behind one of her locks that Sophie recognized from the garden behind her home. She was fairly certain Kesler had picked it for her; Juline never wore flowers in her hair unless they were from him.

Maybe Keefe would do that for her someday.

"Sorry," she said, shaking herself out of her dazed thoughts of the blond-haired boy. Whatever had happened in that room, it already felt like a fantasy. All she had to prove it wasn't was her sketch of the turtle he'd folded for her to keep in her pocket. "I was just talking to Keefe."

Her aunt's eyebrows rose as they made their way out of the room. "Oh? Got a little distracted, did you?"

"A little," she admitted. She tried not to think too hard about the curiosity in her tone, but it was hard, especially when Juline's eyebrows quirked higher, turquoise eyes flickering to her.

"Ah." A pause. "So, you've been taking these classes for years, haven't you?"

"Yeah. Three, now."

"Have you drawn anything yet?"

"A turtle."

"A . . ." Juline stared at her as she opened the door to let her out of the building. "A turtle?"

"Yup." She nodded as a goofy grin lifted the edges of her lips. A cool breeze whispered against her skin as she stepped outside. "A turtle."

"And . . . has it shown up on anyone's skin that you know of, yet?" she wondered casually.

Sophie frowned at her aunt, but the woman seemed to take it the wrong way; she tilted her head sympathetically.

"Do you think you want a soulmate, Sophie?" Juline's turquoise gaze focused intently upon the ground. "If you love someone enough, does soulmatism really matter?"

"Of course not," she replied cheerfully. "You and Uncle Kesler are a living example of that."

"So . . ." She stopped abruptly and turned to face her. "I know Grady doesn't approve of your, uh . . . friendship with Keefe Sencen —"

Smooth, Sophie nearly deadpanned. She was just about ready to roll her eyes and turn away, but first of all, the woman was almost never exactly wrong. And besides, something about Keefe's name held her back.

"— I mean, to be fair, he wouldn't approve of your friendship with any boy unless you came out to him as a lesbian —"

"Wait a minute, I —"

"— and he wouldn't approve of your friendship with anyone if you came out as bisexual, the way Dex is, you know —"

"Hold on, but I'm not —"

"— but I digress," Juline finished quickly. "The point is, you and Keefe, I'd wouldn't be surprised if you are soulmates. But if you aren't, you do know it's okay to love him, right?"

"You think I'm in love with Keefe Sencen?" Sophie blurted.

She bit her lip. "You aren't?"

It took all her might not to burst out laughing at the pure confusion in her aunt's eyes. "Okay, that's fair. But . . ." She peered up at her, wondering if she'd understand. Maybe a little part of her didn't want Keefe and Sophie to be soulmates. Not with malicious intent or anything, of course, but maybe that way she would feel . . . I don't know. Lonely didn't sound quite right. Helpful didn't make sense either.

Maybe she just wanted her to understand that it was okay, that Sophie's happiness was the most important thing, and nothing else.

In that case, would she be delighted to hear the news?

"He's my soulmate," Sophie whispered, as if saying it any louder would make the world go silent.

Juline's eyes widened. "Really? Wait, really? Oh, Sophie, that's amazing!" she exclaimed, pulling her into what could've won World's Warmest Hug. Hmm. Maybe she should get a mug like that for her. "I can't believe it! I mean, I can, and from what I've seen from you two, and heard from Dex complaining about third-wheeling —"

"Say what?"

"— I'm not very surprised, but still!" Her grin was practically bursting with joy. "Have you told Grady yet?"

Sophie bit her lip, still faintly stuck on the thing about Dex complaining. "You're the first to know."

Juline's hands grasped hers; her turquoise eyes lit up like the stars when they met hers, round with a childlike excitement. "Can I please be there when you tell him?"

She laughed nervously, trying not to think of the sheer rigid tension that would definitely grow in the presence of her dad's over-protective demeanor when she told him the news. "Sure."

"Sophie, this is amazing!" She pulled her into another tight hug, and suddenly, Sophie didn't want to let go.

It was amazing. It was beautiful, and euphoric, and fantastic, and terrifying, and oh, Lord, what was she going to tell her parents, and how was she going to explain this to her friends, and — she had a date on Friday! What if it was awkward — what if she was too awkward?

"He loves you, you know," Juline murmured in her ear. "He's absolutely head-over-heels in love with you."

He loves you.

That was all that mattered.

The whole world could've been exploding, but he loved her, and that was all that mattered.

~ Aria Ashtri
7/19/2021, ~10:00 p.m.