ILLICIT ROMANCE

By midweek, the rhythm of school had begun to settle — the hum of lectures, the scrape of pencils across vellum, the clatter of models being assembled and abandoned. Zelda's new apartment smelled like fresh paper, sandalwood incense, and lavender detergent. Her desk overflowed with sketches, thumbnails, drafts of blueprints, and coffee-stained tracing paper. Her schedule was full, her nights long, and her fingers permanently stained with ink.

And still, the peace didn't last.

She stepped into Studio Hall early that morning, hoodie pulled over her braid, wired earbuds feeding her soft instrumental piano — a quiet shield against the outside world. She needed to be alone in her thoughts. Her new assignment was one of the more complex yet — a residential redesign focused not just on aesthetic, but on emotional utility. A house that felt like sanctuary.

Zelda had ideas. Whispers of them, like chalk outlines in her mind. She was thinking about angles and light — about how space could heal — when she stopped short.

Someone was already at her drafting table.

Marcella.

Sitting there like she belonged, like this space — her space — was just another mirror for her performance. Cherry-red blouse. Gold accessories. Pencil skirt. Her legs were crossed, her fingers idly spinning a mechanical pencil she probably didn't even know how to click.

Zelda pulled her earbuds out. "You're in the wrong department."

Marcella turned to her with a radiant smile. "Oh, am I?"

Zelda didn't answer.

Marcella leaned her elbow on the table. "I have a temporary pass. Cross-department audit. Isn't that what they call it? I'm just here to explore. Virelli approved it."

Zelda's eyes narrowed. "You're not here to learn."

"No," Marcella said sweetly, "I'm here to observe."

Zelda's arms folded across her chest. "Observe what?"

Marcella's smile never faltered. "How someone like you handles pressure."

Before Zelda could answer, the door opened behind her.

Lucien.

Dressed in dark jeans, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his gait smooth and unhurried. He moved like a storm that had already passed through — quiet now, but powerful. He didn't look at Marcella. He didn't look at Zelda.

But his presence sucked the warmth out of the room all the same.

He crossed the front of the studio with quiet confidence and exchanged a few words with Professor Virelli.

Then Virelli clapped his hands.

"This week's guest critique," he announced, "will be led by someone who's built what most of you only sketch in daydreams. Architect Lucien Callahan."

Whispers erupted across the room. A few students sat straighter. Marcella's eyes glittered. Zelda… didn't move.

Lucien nodded. "Let's begin."

---

The critiques were swift and brutal.

Lucien moved table to table, precise and sharp. He didn't waste words. Didn't cushion his feedback with smiles or sympathy. One student got a curt "uninspired." Another, "disconnected." A third nearly cried after he said, "If the goal was boredom, you've succeeded."

Zelda said nothing, head down, sketching. She hadn't even noticed her pencil trembling.

When he finally reached her table, the room went still.

Zelda's model stood clean and minimal — neutral tones, crisp lines, a modern box with large windows and open interiors. Safe. Efficient.

Lucien studied it without touching it.

He didn't look at her.

"This house has no voice," he said quietly.

Zelda's spine straightened. "It has structure."

"That's not the same thing."

"It meets every requirement on the rubric."

Lucien glanced at her, then back to the model. "So does an instruction manual. That doesn't make it architecture."

From across the room, Marcella leaned forward, watching like a cat before a pounce.

Zelda clenched her jaw. "What would you have me design? A mirror?"

Lucien's eyes flickered. "No. But I'd like to see something that doesn't hide."

The silence stretched thin between them.

Virelli cleared his throat and called for a break.

Zelda stood up too fast, grabbing her sketchbook and storming out.

---

She found herself alone in the corridor, leaning against the cold wall, trying to breathe. Her hands were still shaking — not from the critique, but from the way Lucien had looked at her. Like he knew. Like he saw through every line, every corner, every polished lie in that model.

She didn't expect Ariyah to find her.

"Zel!" Ariyah skidded to a stop, her bun messier than usual, a granola bar sticking out of her hoodie pocket. "What happened? You disappeared like someone insulted your rendering."

Zelda gave her a look.

"Oh," Ariyah said softly. "Was it him?"

Zelda didn't answer.

Ariyah sighed and handed her a muffin wrapped in paper. "Here. Sugar therapy. You don't have to explain. I brought emergency carbs."

Zelda took it, lips twitching.

"He said it lacked voice," she muttered, "like he's one to talk."

Ariyah leaned against the wall beside her. "Yeah, well. His voice is probably registered as a deadly weapon."

Zelda laughed under her breath. "Marcella was in the studio too."

"Wait — what?" Ariyah blinked. "That fake princess? In our space?"

"She's 'auditing.'"

Ariyah groaned. "Tell her to audit her personality while she's at it."

Zelda smiled, faintly. "They suck the air out of everything."

"Then build a space with its own oxygen," Ariyah said, suddenly serious. "A room only you can breathe in. One she can't touch."

Zelda glanced at her. "How do you always say exactly what I need to hear?"

"Magic. And emotionally repressed parents."

---

That evening, Zelda returned home and tore her model apart.

Literally.

She ripped off the roof, pulled out the walls, threw the pieces in the sink. Her clean lines weren't just safe — they were dishonest. She hadn't built a sanctuary.

She'd built a cage.

So she started again.

She didn't sketch. She didn't measure. She just built. Her hands moved on instinct, fueled by quiet fury and something deeper — a need to reclaim the story her model told.

She crafted an uneven floorplan. A messy, beautiful, broken thing. Rooms that flowed into one another without apology. A wide front porch with no fence. A skylight over the bathtub. A door that could lock from both sides.

This wasn't for Lucien.

It was for her.

---

The next morning, Marcella was waiting for her outside the café on campus.

She looked perfect — of course. Green silk blouse. Gold studs. Phone in hand like it was a weapon.

"You're slipping," she said sweetly.

Zelda raised a brow. "Good morning to you too."

"He saw it," Marcella continued. "Lucien. He's disappointed."

Zelda kept walking. "Let him be."

Marcella matched her stride. "That's it? No defense? No clever comeback?"

"I'm not performing for you anymore."

Marcella's smile twitched. "You've always been in the way, Zelda."

Zelda stopped walking.

She turned to face her fully. Calm. Steady.

"And yet I'm still here."

Marcella blinked.

Zelda tilted her head slightly. "You're not the storm anymore, Marcella. You're just the echo."

She walked away then — slow, deliberate steps — and didn't look back.

---

That night, Lucien sat in Virelli's office, sipping coffee he didn't touch, reviewing models from the day.

When he came to Zelda's — the new one, freshly rebuilt — he froze.

He traced one finger over the roof. It was jagged. The walls uneven. But it had a pulse.

It breathed.

He didn't say anything. Just stared.

Virelli looked up from his desk. "That one's yours, isn't it?"

Lucien didn't reply.

But in his silence, there was something unsettled.

Something that lingered.