Cleo didn't know what to say the next time he saw Riz.
It was a Friday afternoon, the sun low and golden across the Engineering building. Cleo had just finished a presentation for his Sustainable Design class, mind running on half-charged adrenaline and caffeine. He stepped outside and there he was—Riz—leaning against his bike like a movie cliché come to life, hair ruffled by the wind, sketchpad strapped to his bag.
Cleo stopped.
Riz straightened, cautious. "Hey."
"Hey."
A beat passed. Two.
"You ran off the other day," Riz said gently.
"I know."
"Are you gonna keep doing that?"
Cleo looked away, jaw tight. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This," Cleo snapped, motioning vaguely between them. "You. Us. Whatever it is."
Riz didn't flinch. He stepped closer instead. "Then don't do it all at once. Just start with now."
Cleo hesitated. "And what if I mess it up?"
"You *will*," Riz said with a grin. "And I'll mess it up too. But I'm not afraid of that. Are you?"
Cleo's heart skipped. He hated how Riz always said exactly the right thing. It made him feel... exposed.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Wanna go somewhere?"
Riz tilted his head. "Right now?"
"Yeah. Before I change my mind."
---
They ended up walking to the rooftop of the Architecture building—a quiet, open space Riz said most students didn't know about. The view of the campus was unreal: buildings dipped in late sunlight, the quad buzzing with life, a breeze cutting gently through the air.
They sat on the ledge, shoulder to shoulder. Not quite touching.
"Why me?" Cleo asked, voice low. "Out of everyone?"
Riz was quiet for a moment.
"Because when you talk about your work, your whole face lights up. And you fight for what you believe in. You don't pretend. You're sharp, and stubborn, and you challenge me. You make me want to be better."
Cleo didn't know what to say to that.
So he didn't say anything at all.
---
Later that evening, they sat in Riz's studio, sketchpads open but forgotten. There was music playing low—some instrumental playlist Riz liked—and the sun had long since dipped below the horizon.
Riz was sprawled on the couch, pencil between his fingers, tapping a rhythm against his thigh.
Cleo watched him.
He didn't even realize he'd been staring until Riz glanced up. "What?"
"Nothing."
Riz smirked. "You've been quiet."
Cleo's voice was quiet too. "I've been thinking."
"About?"
"You."
Riz raised an eyebrow. "Okay..."
"I think I've been scared of you. Not because I hate you. But because I didn't want to admit I liked you."
Riz's smirk softened.
Cleo stood up, walked over, and before he could talk himself out of it—he kissed him.
It was nothing like the retreat kiss. This one was intentional. Slower. Cleo's hands trembled just a little where they pressed against Riz's chest, but Riz didn't pull away.
He kissed him back.
When they finally pulled apart, Riz was smiling.
"You sure about this?"
"No," Cleo said honestly. "But I want to be."
Riz leaned in again, forehead resting against Cleo's. "Good. Because I've waited a long time."
---
That night, they didn't talk much.
They sat together in the quiet of the studio, heads leaning against each other, sketchbooks open between them. Not rivals. Not strangers.
Something new. Something electric.
And this time, Cleo didn't run.
---
End of Chapter Four