Chapter 5 - A Night of Lights and Lessons in Love

  The ballroom shimmered under the soft glow of golden chandeliers, casting warm light over the sea of students in their finest attire. The air smelled faintly of cologne, perfume, and something sweet from the chocolate fountain near the refreshments table. Ezra had never seen so many people trying so hard to be elegant while barely holding their own balance in stiff dress shoes.

  Julie, of course, was in her element.

  Dressed in a deep emerald gown that clung to her in all the right ways without making her look like she was trying too hard, she practically owned the damn room. She had already danced three times—twice for fun and once just to mess with a guy who clearly thought he had a shot with her. Ezra had been perfectly content watching from the sidelines, sipping on some questionable punch, when she caught his eye.

  She smirked.

  And Ezra knew he was doomed.

  “C’mon, Cum-Back Kid,” she teased, striding toward him with all the confidence of a queen about to pull a peasant onto the dance floor. “I know you can outtalk half the people here, but can you out-dance them?”

  Ezra held up his hands in surrender. “I never claimed to have rhythm, Jules.”

  Julie grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward the dance floor. “Lucky for you, neither did half these idiots.”

  Ezra barely had time to protest before she spun him around like they were in a full-fledged ballroom performance.

  And to his absolute horror—He was actually having fun.

  They twirled under the lights, laughing between stumbles and missteps, Julie taking the lead and Ezra just trying not to step on her feet. The music swelled around them, a slow but steady rhythm, and for a moment—just a moment—Ezra felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

  They danced through a few songs before finally breaking away, breathless, and Ezra, feeling entirely too good about himself, made a very dangerous decision.

  "Alright," he smirked, "but can you keep up with me at the late-night snack run?"

  Julie grinned. "Ezra, I was born for late-night snack runs."

  The diner was mostly empty when they arrived, the neon sign buzzing overhead in flickering reds and yellows. The smell of greasy fries, sizzling burgers, and old fryer oil filled the air, and the lone worker at the register barely looked up as they ordered their food.

  They took their usual seats by the window, the city stretching out before them in glowing dots of streetlights and passing cars. Ezra popped a fry into his mouth, watching as Julie expertly unwrapped her burger without spilling a single drop of sauce on her dress—a skill that he considered downright mythical.

  "So," she said, leaning back in her seat. "What’s next for the great Ezra and his master plans? I assume you’re well on your way to achieving world domination."

  Ezra smirked. "One well-timed physics breakthrough away, I’d say."

  Julie wiggled her brows. "I knew I was keeping you around for a reason."

  Ezra rolled his eyes, but before he could fire back with a witty retort, his gaze drifted out the window. His mind, for reasons beyond him, wandered somewhere else entirely.

  "What exactly is love?" he muttered.

  Julie, mid-bite, paused. She raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Deep thoughts at midnight?"

  Ezra shrugged, pulling out his phone. "It’s just… it’s such a big word. People throw it around all the time, but it’s got to mean more than one thing, right?"

  Julie hummed, wiping a bit of ketchup from her thumb. "Yeah. Makes sense. What’s Google got to say about it?"

  Ezra tapped away at his phone before reading aloud. "The Greeks broke love into four main types: Eros, Philia, Storge, and Agape." He looked up at her. "Ever heard of them?"

  Julie shook her head. "Enlighten me, oh wise scholar."

  Ezra smirked and continued. "Eros—that’s romantic, passionate love. The kind you see in movies. The kind that’s all fire and obsession."

  Julie raised a brow, tilting her head. "Not really our vibe, huh?"

  Ezra snorted. "Not unless you count us fighting over the last fry."

  Julie smirked, nudging his plate closer to him. "Go on, then. What’s next?"

  Ezra scrolled. "Philia. That’s friendship—deep, trusting, loyal love. The kind of love that’s actually worth a damn."

  Julie leaned in slightly, propping her chin on her hand. "That sounds more like us."

  Ezra nodded. "Then there’s Storge—family love. The kind that’s built over time, through shared experiences and just knowing each other."

  Julie’s expression softened. "I mean… that kind of fits too. We’ve known each other forever."

  Ezra smirked. "So what you’re saying is we’re basically an old married couple."

  Julie threw a fry at his face. Ezra laughed, dodging it just in time.

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin before finishing. "And last—Agape. The highest form of love. Selfless, unconditional, the kind of love that doesn’t expect anything in return."

  Julie went quiet for a moment. She tapped a finger against the table, her gaze thoughtful. "That’s… actually kind of beautiful."

  Ezra nodded. "Yeah. I guess it just goes to show—love isn’t just one thing. People always focus on Eros, like it’s the only love that matters, but… all of these? They’re just as important."

  Julie smiled, a rare, genuine smile, not her usual playful smirk. "So, what kind of love do you think we have?"

  Ezra didn’t hesitate. "Philia."

  Julie grinned. "Good answer."

  They sat there for a moment, just letting the words sink in, the hum of the diner’s lights buzzing faintly above them. Neither of them needed to say more.

  Their friendship wasn’t built on fleeting passion, on fire that burned fast and fizzled out. It was built on trust, history, and the fact that neither of them ever had to pretend to be something they weren’t.

  And that?

  That was enough.

  For now.

  As they stepped out of the diner, the air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of rain on the horizon. The city streets were quiet, just a few cars passing by, their headlights cutting through the night.

  Julie stretched, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Well, this has been fun, but if I don’t get home soon, my dad’s gonna start tracking my phone like a government agent."

  Ezra chuckled. "I’d pay to see that interrogation."

  Julie smirked. "You wish you had my dad’s spy tech."

  They stood there for a moment, neither moving, as if something unspoken lingered between them.

  Then Julie punched his arm lightly. "See you tomorrow, scholar."

  Ezra smirked. "See you tomorrow, crow."

  And just like that, the night ended.

  No confessions. No grand romantic gestures.

  Just two friends, knowing that whatever this was, it was already something special.

  The classroom was nearly empty, the last few students filing out as the bell signaled the end of the day. Ezra and Julie, however, remained behind, books sprawled across their desks as they casually flipped through pages, half-studying, half-lost in conversation.

  “Alright, so let’s say love is just a feeling, right?” Julie said, stretching her arms behind her head. “Then why do people do stupid things for it?”

  Ezra leaned back in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers. “Because emotions process faster than logic. The brain prioritizes feeling over thinking—which is why people tend to act before reasoning kicks in.”

  Julie smirked. “That’s a fancy way of saying people are dumb when they’re in love.”

  Mr. Harding, who had been gathering his papers at the front of the room, let out a quiet chuckle.

  Julie’s eyes snapped to him. “Oh no, were you listening?”

  Harding glanced over his glasses, amusement flickering in his expression. “I’d apologize, but if you didn’t want an audience, you wouldn’t be debating love at full volume in an empty classroom.”

  Julie huffed, but Ezra leaned forward, intrigued.

  “Since you’re eavesdropping anyway,” Ezra said, “what’s your take? You’ve got that whole ‘wise old scientist’ vibe going on—what’s love, in scientific terms?”

  Mr. Harding smirked, stepping toward them and pulling out a chair. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s talk about Negative Love.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “That sounds… dark.”

  “Not at all,” Harding said, folding his hands together. “It’s just something people don’t think about often. See, we tend to divide emotions into positive and negative categories. Happiness, joy, excitement—those are ‘good.’ Anger, jealousy, sadness—those are ‘bad.’ But what if I told you that all of those emotions—even the ones we consider negative—are just forms of love in disguise?”

  Ezra’s curiosity piqued instantly. “Go ooooon...”

  Harding leaned forward. “Take anger, for example. When are people most angry? When something they love—their pride, their values, their relationships—is threatened. No one gets truly angry over something they don’t care about. The anger exists because love is present.”

  Julie narrowed her eyes, thoughtful now. “Okay… but what about jealousy?”

  “That one’s easy,” Harding said with a smirk. “Jealousy is just love combined with fear—the fear of losing something important. It doesn’t exist without love being there first.”

  Ezra tapped his pen against his notebook. “So what you’re saying is… love fuels every emotion?”

  “Exactly,” Harding said, pleased. “Fear, sadness, rage—strip them down, and at their core, you’ll always find love for something or someone. It’s just being expressed through different lenses.”

  Julie rested her chin in her palm, her usual playfulness replaced with real thought. “So, what? Love’s this all-consuming thing that just decides how we feel about everything?”

  Harding chuckled. “Not quite. But that brings me to my next point—how we measure it.”

  Ezra sat up straighter. “Measure love? You’re saying it’s quantifiable?”

  Harding nodded. “In a way. If we think of love as an action rather than just a feeling, then we can assign it values. Let’s say zero is the absence of love—neutrality. That’s the baseline. But love starts to matter when we put it into motion.”

  He grabbed a piece of chalk, turning to the board behind him.

  “One, for example, would represent the ultimate sacrifice—giving one’s life for another.” He marked a 1 on the board. “That’s the peak expression of love. No greater act exists.”

  Julie let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s a high bar.”

  Harding smirked. “It is. But let’s move to the other side of the scale.” He turned back to the board and wrote -1.

  “This,” he said, tapping the number, “is what I call Negative Love. It’s when love overrides logic. It’s when emotions take complete control over reasoning. Why? Because humans process emotions five times faster than rational thought.”

  Ezra’s eyes widened. “So you’re saying… when people do something reckless because of love—when they lash out, or make terrible decisions—it’s because their love has hit the negative scale?”

  Harding nodded. “Precisely. A -1 means you love something so much that it clouds your judgment entirely. It doesn’t mean the love isn’t real—it just means it’s unchecked.”

  Julie leaned back, staring at the board. “So, hold up—where does everyday love land? The stuff like… helping a friend move, or sharing food?”

  Harding grinned. “Those would fall anywhere from 0.1 to 0.5. Small sacrifices, daily acts of kindness—they all have value. But the big moments, the ones that define people? Those are closer to the extremes.”

  Ezra leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk. “So Negative Love isn’t bad—it’s just love without reason?”

  “Exactly,” Harding said, tapping the chalk against his palm. “Most people think that when emotions take over, it means something isn’t love anymore. But the truth is, the more irrational an emotion is, the stronger the love behind it. The problem isn’t love itself—it’s what you do with it.”

  Julie whistled again. “That’s a hell of a way to look at things.”

  Ezra was completely absorbed now. “So, in history—people who did extreme things in the name of love—wars, revolutions, even personal vendettas—those were just… -1 love moments?”

  Harding smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”

  Julie smirked. “And heartbreak?”

  Harding chuckled. “That depends. Are you self-destructing over it? Or are you learning from it? Because if you’re learning, then it’s no longer a -1.”

  Ezra let out a slow breath, staring at the board. This conversation had started as a joke—just a casual chat after class. But now?

  Now he was thinking differently.

  Love wasn’t just a feeling. It wasn’t just something that happened—it was something that had weight, logic, and consequences.

  It wasn’t just about what you felt.

  It was about what you did with it.

  Harding clapped his hands together. “Well, kids, I think that’s enough philosophy for one day. Unless you want to start graphing emotional states—”

  Julie held up her hands. “Nope, I’m good, thanks.”

  Ezra chuckled, but as he packed up his things, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a conversation he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

  Bruiser stood in the middle of the job site, arms crossed, watching as Big Bubba barked orders at a couple of apprentices struggling to measure out a clean 45-degree cut. The heat of the summer sun bore down on them, sweat already dripping down the back of Ezra’s neck as he stood beside his former enemy-turned-workmate.

  “This is your idea of a fun summer?” Bruiser muttered, side-eyeing Ezra.

  Ezra smirked, adjusting his hard hat. “What, you thought construction was all about swinging hammers and looking cool?”

  Bruiser scoffed. “I never thought it looked cool.”

  Ezra patted him on the shoulder. “That’s because you haven’t had the pleasure of getting yelled at by Bubba yet. Give it time.”

  Just as he said that, Bubba turned their way, his booming voice carrying over the sounds of saws and metal clanking. “Alright, ladies! Time to learn something useful! Gather around unless you wanna be the kind of men who can’t read a damn angle without a calculator!”

  Ezra and Bruiser exchanged a glance before stepping forward, joining the rest of the crew.

  Big Bubba stood at the workbench, holding up a speed square, tapping it against the wood. “Some of y’all think this thing is just a triangle. But this little guy here is the difference between something standing strong… or fallin’ apart under its own damn weight.”

  Tweak, standing nearby, nodded sagely. “Like my first marriage.”

  Bubba shot him a look before turning back to the apprentices. “If you can’t measure angles, you’re useless in this trade. Lucky for you, God already gave you a damn protractor—your own two hands.”

  Ezra and Bruiser watched as Bubba held up his left hand, stretching out his thumb and pinky wide. “Right here? This is 90 degrees. Your thumb’s one side, your pinky’s the other. And if you take both hands?” He held them up together, thumbs meeting in the middle. “That’s 180 degrees. Half a circle.”

  Bruiser raised an eyebrow. “That actually makes sense.”

  Ezra tried it himself, stretching out his fingers. “Wait, so how do we get smaller angles?”

  Bubba grinned, pointing to the space between his thumb and pointer finger. “This? Roughly 30 degrees. Spread it a little wider, between your thumb and middle finger? 45 degrees. Keep going, and you got 60.”

  Tweak smirked. “It ain’t perfect, but it’ll keep you from lookin’ like an idiot when you don’t have a square handy.”

  Ezra turned to Bruiser, grinning. “Guess that means you got no excuse now, huh?”

  Bruiser shot him a look before holding up his own hands, testing the angles for himself. For someone who had once struggled with basic history lessons, he picked up on it fast.

  Bubba nodded approvingly. “See? Even the big guy gets it. Ain’t that hard.”

  Bruiser rolled his eyes, but Ezra could see the faintest hint of pride in his expression.

  The lessons didn’t stop there.

  Over the course of the summer, the crew drilled Ezra and Bruiser on everything from proper cutting angles to unconventional problem-solving—what Bubba fondly called “redneck engineering.”

  “If it’s stupid but it works,” Bubba told them, holding up a makeshift wooden brace that had been thrown together with zip ties and sheer determination, “then it ain’t stupid.”

  Tweak nodded sagely. “Some of the best fixes in the world weren’t made in fancy labs, boys. They were made by guys with duct tape and bad ideas.”

  Ezra laughed, but Bruiser was watching carefully, taking mental notes.

  They learned how pressure worked in construction, how weight had to be distributed evenly or everything would collapse in on itself. They learned to use a speed square properly, ensuring every cut they made was clean and precise.

  And, surprisingly?

  Bruiser was good at it.

  One afternoon, as Ezra was tightening bolts on a wooden frame, he overheard the general contractor giving a speech to some of the newer apprentices.

  “Y’all ever have to talk in front of a group?” The man asked, pacing in front of them.

  The young workers exchanged nervous glances, a few muttering things about hating public speaking.

  The contractor smirked. “Here’s the trick: Breathe. You can’t think when your brain’s running on panic. Slow it down. Steady your heartbeat. Control the pause.”

  Ezra paused in his work, listening closer.

  “Y’all ever notice how Bubba talks real slow?” the contractor continued, smirking toward the big man. “That’s because he knows people listen when you take your time. If you rush, you sound like you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. But if you slow down?” He gestured wide. “People take you seriously.”

  Ezra and Bruiser shared a look.

  Neither of them had ever really thought about it before, but it made sense.

  Bruiser, who had always been loud and aggressive, started testing it—speaking slower when he gave instructions, standing taller, exuding calm instead of force. Ezra watched it transform him, turning his natural presence into something that commanded respect.

  And Ezra? He learned to do the same.

  By the end of the summer, they weren’t just former rivals. They were teammates—two kids who had gone from fists and insults to real trust.

  Ezra had learned practical math, picked up skills that made textbook trigonometry feel like child’s play, and gained an appreciation for the craft of building something real.

  Bruiser had learned patience, how to break problems down without brute force, and for the first time, he had people treating him like he had real potential.

  As they packed up their things on the last day, Bruiser leaned against the truck, arms crossed. “Alright, I’ll admit it… this was actually kinda fun.”

  Ezra smirked. “You? Enjoying math? Who are you?”

  Bruiser rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.

  As they loaded up for the drive home, Ezra had a thought.

  He had a math presentation coming up soon.

  And maybe—just maybe—he had the perfect topic.

  Ezra stood at the base of the scaffolding, clipboard in hand, the metal frame towering overhead. His heart swelled a little with pride—this was his first time being put in charge of a task, not just another pair of hands in the crew. Big Bubba had pulled him aside that morning, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and grunted, "Alright, Cum-Back Kid, today’s your show. Bruiser’s your apprentice. Don’t screw it up."

  He had nodded, taking the responsibility seriously.

  Bruiser, however, had other ideas.

  "Ezra," he called from the second level of the scaffolding, grinning as he leaned against the railing. "We’ve been workin’ this thing for weeks. We know what we’re doing. Why waste time double-checking everything?"

  Ezra frowned, looking up at him. “Because if we don’t, someone could get hurt.”

  Bruiser scoffed, adjusting his hard hat. “Come on, man. You’re thinking too much. This job’s all about flow. You gotta trust your instincts. Improvisation, baby. That’s how you get things done fast.”

  Ezra sighed, flipping through the checklist Bubba had given him. He had been so close to reminding Bruiser that “redneck engineering” wasn’t always the best answer when—

  CRACK.

  A sickening metal groan filled the air.

  The scaffolding lurched beneath Bruiser’s feet.

  For a split second, everything froze.

  Then, with a deafening clatter, one side collapsed inward, sending metal poles and wooden planks raining to the ground. Bruiser had just enough time to leap sideways, catching himself on a horizontal beam as the entire section of scaffolding folded like a dying spider.

  Ezra’s stomach plummeted.

  Dust and debris filled the air, and the other workers snapped their heads toward the wreckage, shouting. Bruiser, hanging from the remaining framework, cursed under his breath, his legs dangling.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “F—Ezra, help!”

  Ezra was already moving. He climbed up the remaining structure like his life depended on it, grabbing Bruiser’s forearm and pulling him up onto the stable platform.

  The two sat there, panting, staring at the pile of twisted metal and wood below.

  A silence hung between them.

  Then, from across the site, a very familiar, very dangerous voice rang out.

  “BOYS. IN MY TRAILER. NOW.”

  The safety officer had arrived.

  The general contractor’s trailer was cramped and suffocatingly hot, the small fan in the corner doing little to stir the stagnant air. Ezra and Bruiser sat side by side on the wooden bench, staring at the floor like guilty children. Across from them, behind a desk covered in safety manuals and incident reports, stood Mr. Fitch, the site’s OSHA inspector.

  He was a thick-built man, his arms crossed over his chest, his steel-gray mustache twitching as he stared them down.

  “You two think this is a game?” he asked, his voice low, steady, and worse than shouting.

  Neither of them spoke.

  “Do you know what could have happened today?” Fitch continued, stepping around the desk. “Do you have any idea how close you were to putting a man in the hospital? Or a coffin?”

  Ezra swallowed hard, his mind racing for an excuse. "Sir, it wasn’t—"

  "Don’t lie."

  Ezra’s mouth snapped shut.

  Fitch planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "I know everything that happens on this site. I know you two have been working undocumented. I know Bubba and the crew have been giving you a chance to learn. And I know—" his voice dropped to a near whisper, "exactly what kind of bullshit went down out there today."

  Bruiser shifted beside Ezra, but didn’t speak.

  Fitch straightened. "So. Who did it?"

  The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

  Ezra hesitated, his brain working overtime. He could spin something—say the scaffolding was faulty, or that a loose bolt caused the collapse. But the weight of Fitch’s unblinking stare pinned him in place.

  Then, Bruiser exhaled through his nose and spoke first.

  "It was me," he said, voice firm. "I rushed the setup. Didn’t brace it right."

  Ezra turned his head, surprised.

  Fitch nodded slowly. But he didn’t respond.

  Instead, he let the silence sink in.

  Seconds ticked by, dragging like wet cement.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "You were wrong," Fitch said, pointing a finger at Bruiser. "You rushed. You cut corners. You nearly got yourself—or someone else—killed."

  Bruiser’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.

  Then Fitch turned to Ezra. "And you—you were wrong too."

  Ezra blinked. "What?"

  "You knew better. You saw him getting cocky. You knew something was off. And you did nothing. That makes you just as responsible as he is."

  Ezra felt the words hit like a punch to the gut.

  "You think this is just about one bad scaffolding job?" Fitch continued. "This is about the real world. There are no second chances with safety. None. If someone had been underneath that collapse, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—we’d be filling out paperwork for a funeral."

  Bruiser shifted beside him, suddenly very interested in the floor.

  "Safety isn’t just following rules when someone’s watching," Fitch said, voice softer now. "It’s making sure your people go home at the end of the day."

  He walked back around the desk, grabbed a thick, battered OSHA manual, and dropped it in front of them.

  "Your homework," he said flatly. "Read the first three chapters. You’re lucky this was a small job and not a big commercial site. If it were, you’d both be gone—fired, fined, maybe worse."

  Ezra nodded, feeling the weight of what had happened settle in.

  Bruiser, for once, said nothing.

  As they stood to leave, Fitch called out one last time.

  "Remember this, boys. It’s not about who gets blamed. It’s about who takes responsibility."

  Ezra and Bruiser didn’t say a word as they stepped out into the blazing heat of the afternoon.

  For the first time all summer, neither of them had anything to say.

  And for the first time, Ezra understood just how serious this job really was.

  Ezra had never thought of himself as a “math guy,” but after a summer of hands-on problem-solving at the job site, something had changed. Math wasn’t just numbers on a page anymore. It was angles, weight distribution, leverage—real, practical knowledge that made or broke the integrity of a structure.

  So when his teacher introduced trigonometry to the class and asked if anyone had an easy trick to remember common angles, Ezra grinned.

  “Yeah, actually,” he said, standing up. “You’ve got one built into your hands.”

  The class gave him the usual mix of half-curious, half-bored stares, but Ezra stepped up to the board confidently.

  “Alright,” he said, stretching his left hand out. “This right here? 90 degrees. Your thumb and pinky make a right angle. If you bring in the rest of your fingers, you can start breaking it down.” He folded in his middle and ring fingers, leaving his thumb and index finger at a smaller angle. “This is about 45 degrees. Open it a little wider, and you get 60.”

  The teacher, who had been leaning against his desk, suddenly straightened. “Wait… that actually makes sense.”

  Ezra held up both hands together, thumbs touching. “And if you use both hands, you’ve got 180 degrees—a straight line.”

  The class stirred with excitement, a few students testing it out, while the teacher stared at his own hands like he had just discovered a new law of physics.

  Ezra grinned. He had spent years thinking school was separate from the real world, but now?

  Now he saw how experience fed into knowledge, and knowledge back into experience.

  Despite his newfound appreciation for math, it wasn’t numbers that captivated Ezra this fall.

  It was art.

  It had started as an accident—he had been killing time after school, wandering the halls, when he stumbled upon the art club. At first, he had just watched from the doorway, intrigued by the smell of paint and the quiet intensity of students hunched over their work.

  Then, the teacher had noticed him.

  “You’re either lost,” the man said, glancing up from his sketchbook, “or curious.”

  Ezra had half a mind to leave, but something about the way the teacher said it—like he was inviting him in without actually inviting him—made him hesitate.

  “I guess I’m curious,” Ezra admitted.

  That was how it started.

  And that was how Ezra met the man who would change the way he saw the world.

  The art teacher was a different kind of person. He wasn’t like Mr. Harding, who saw the world through logic and precision. He wasn’t like Bubba and the crew, who viewed things in practical, problem-solving ways.

  He was something else entirely.

  His name was Mr. Whitaker, and he had once been a millionaire.

  “A lifetime ago,” he said casually one day, as he and Ezra sat at a long table covered in charcoal and paint tubes. “I sold paintings for tens of thousands of dollars.” He smirked. “People thought I was brilliant.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “And now you’re here?”

  Whitaker chuckled, scratching at his graying beard. “Life has a way of humbling you.”

  Ezra waited, sensing that there was more.

  Whitaker exhaled, glancing down at his hands. “There was a fire,” he said simply. “My studio. My work. Everything. Gone in one night.”

  Ezra’s stomach tightened. “Damn.”

  Whitaker shrugged. “That’s life, kid. You don’t own anything. You just get to borrow it for a while.” He tapped his charcoal against the paper. “But you know what’s funny? I thought losing all my paintings would destroy me. But it was the best thing that ever happened.”

  Ezra blinked. “How?”

  Whitaker leaned forward. "Because it reminded me that art isn’t about what you make—it’s about what you see."

  Ezra frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  Whitaker smirked. “You will.”

  Over the next few weeks, Whitaker became more than just a teacher. He became a guide, a philosopher, someone who saw art as a way of understanding the world. And with every sketch, every brushstroke, Ezra absorbed his wisdom.

  One afternoon, Whitaker handed Ezra a blank canvas and told him to draw something he saw every day.

  Ezra stared at it, then shrugged and started sketching his father’s toolbox. He worked carefully, detailing the edges, the scuffs, the metal latch—focusing on technical accuracy.

  When he finished, Whitaker nodded. “Nice work. But you drew what you thought you saw. Not what’s really there.”

  Ezra frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Whitaker grabbed a pencil, flipping the page. “You saw a toolbox. But did you see the way the light hits the metal? The tiny dents from years of use? The way the latch is slightly off-center?” He started adding details Ezra had missed—small scratches, a soft reflection, a nearly invisible mark on the handle.

  Ezra stared. It was the same toolbox. But now, it looked alive.

  Whitaker smiled. “Art isn’t about skill. It’s about paying attention.”

  Another day, Ezra had been frustrated with a drawing. Nothing looked right. He was ready to scrap it entirely.

  Whitaker just chuckled. “Good. That means you’re about to do something great.”

  Ezra glared. “How do you figure?”

  Whitaker dipped his brush in black ink, then splattered it right across Ezra’s half-finished sketch.

  Ezra gasped. “Dude!”

  Whitaker smirked. “Now, fix it.”

  Ezra opened his mouth to argue, but then… he saw it. The ink bled into the page in an interesting way. Instead of ruining the drawing, it gave him a new starting point.

  Slowly, Ezra picked up his brush and leaned into the mistake.

  And suddenly?

  It wasn’t a mistake anymore.

  Ezra wanted to be good at art. Fast.

  But Whitaker? He made him slow down.

  “You want to rush through it,” he said one evening, watching Ezra scribble a sketch. “But real mastery takes time. Every single expert you admire sucked at the start.”

  Ezra groaned. “So what, I just keep drawing the same thing until it looks right?”

  Whitaker chuckled. “No. You draw until you stop caring about getting it perfect. Then, and only then, do you actually get good.”

  By the end of the semester, Ezra had learned more than how to draw.

  He had learned to see.

  Not just art, but the world.

  He saw patterns where he hadn’t before. How shadows played on metal, how people’s faces told stories even when they weren’t speaking.

  And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to understand what Whitaker had meant all along.

  Art wasn’t about creating.

  It was about noticing.

  Ezra never expected Bruiser to set foot in the art room.

  Not because he thought Bruiser was too rough for it—hell, half the construction workers they had worked with over the summer probably had a better sense of geometry and proportion than most painters. No, Ezra just assumed Bruiser wouldn’t see the point.

  “Art?” Bruiser had scoffed when Ezra first brought it up. “That’s for people who sit in cafés and pretend they understand wine.”

  Ezra had snorted. “You drink root beer out of a glass bottle and act like it’s a fine ale. What’s the difference?”

  That was how he tricked him into showing up. And now? Now Bruiser was standing in the middle of Whitaker’s art class, a pencil in his massive hands, staring at a blank page like it had personally offended him.

  “This is dumb,” Bruiser muttered.

  Whitaker, standing at the front of the class, glanced over. “Only if you think too much about it.”

  Bruiser frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Whitaker smirked, folding his arms. “You ever get in your own way, Michaels?”

  Bruiser stiffened slightly. Ezra saw it—the old instinct to push back, to throw up a wall. But Bruiser wasn’t the same kid he used to be. He just sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  Whitaker nodded, walking over. “Then let’s fix that.”

  Ezra expected Whitaker to tell Bruiser how to hold a pencil, how to sketch lightly, something technical—but instead, he pulled a stool over and sat in front of them, resting his forearms on his knees.

  “You two ever heard of Bloom’s Taxonomy?”

  Ezra squinted. “The education pyramid thing?”

  Whitaker smiled. “Exactly. It’s got six levels. The base? Memorization. That’s what most schools focus on—facts, formulas, regurgitating information.”

  Bruiser smirked. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  Whitaker chuckled. “Next is understanding—actually knowing what the information means. After that, it’s applying—taking what you know and using it in real life.”

  Ezra nodded. “Like construction. I learned more math over the summer than I did in a classroom.”

  “Exactly. Then comes analyzing—breaking things apart, seeing why they work. After that, it’s evaluating—deciding what matters, what’s valuable, what’s worth keeping.” Whitaker tapped the blank canvas in front of them. “But the top level of learning? That’s creation.”

  Bruiser raised an eyebrow. “How’s that different from all the others?”

  Whitaker leaned back. “Memorization, understanding, applying, analyzing, evaluating? That’s all reactive. You’re working with what already exists. But creation?” He gestured broadly. “That’s bringing something new into the world. Something that wasn’t there before. Something only you could make.”

  Ezra sat up straighter. “So you’re saying art is the highest level of intelligence?”

  Whitaker grinned. “I’m saying creation is. Doesn’t have to be art—it could be inventions, ideas, blueprints, writing, music, theories. It’s all creation.”

  Bruiser tapped the pencil against the desk, frowning. “So why don’t they teach it in school?”

  Whitaker’s smile faded just slightly. He exhaled through his nose. “Because the world doesn’t reward creators. It rewards people who can fit into a system. If you’re busy memorizing, analyzing, and evaluating, you’re useful. You can work in someone else’s machine.”

  Ezra narrowed his eyes. “But if you’re creating?”

  Whitaker met his gaze. “Then you’re dangerous.”

  Bruiser snorted. “That’s the most badass way anyone’s ever described finger-painting.”

  Whitaker laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not about paint, Michaels. It’s about control. The world doesn’t want people who think for themselves. It wants people who can follow orders, repeat what they’re told, and never ask if things could be different.”

  Ezra swallowed. It made too much sense.

  Bruiser, seemingly satisfied with that answer, looked back at his blank page. “Alright, so creation’s important. Got it. But what if you’re just… bad at it?”

  Whitaker smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Lemme tell you a story,” he said, leaning forward.

  Ezra and Bruiser exchanged glances but listened as Whitaker stared at the blank canvas in front of him, as if seeing something else entirely.

  “I used to have a life people envied,” he said quietly. “Sold paintings for tens of thousands of dollars. I had a studio, clients, everything I ever wanted.”

  Ezra felt the shift in the room—like the weight of the past had settled in with them.

  “Then,” Whitaker continued, “I lost it all.”

  Ezra tensed. “The fire?”

  Whitaker nodded. “One night. One electrical fault. Everything burned.”

  Bruiser shifted uncomfortably. “Damn.”

  Whitaker smiled wryly. “Yeah. Damn.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “At first, I thought it was over. My career, my work—gone. And you know what the worst part was?”

  Ezra shook his head.

  “It wasn’t the paintings I lost,” Whitaker said. “It was who I thought I was. I had built my whole identity on what I had already created. So when I lost it, I thought I had nothing left.”

  He let the words hang in the air.

  Then, softly, he said, “That’s when I realized I’d been thinking about it all wrong.”

  Ezra and Bruiser stilled.

  Whitaker looked at them, eyes sharp. “You don’t create because you have something. You create because you can.”

  Ezra’s breath caught.

  “If you’re always focused on just surviving, you’ll never notice the opportunities to create. If you think who you are is tied to what you’ve already done, you’ll never realize who you could be.”

  Ezra felt something in him shift.

  For years, he had been focused on proving himself, being remembered, making his mark. But Whitaker was right—creation wasn’t about proving something.

  It was about becoming.

  For the first time, Bruiser didn’t roll his eyes or crack a joke. He just stared at his blank page, then—without a word—put pencil to paper.

  Ezra watched as the lines started to take shape. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t even good. But they were his.

  He turned back to his own canvas, the weight of Whitaker’s words still settling.

  Creation wasn’t about talent.

  It wasn’t about success.

  It was about allowing yourself to build something new, without fear of failure.

  And for the first time, Ezra understood—art wasn’t just in paintings.

  It was everywhere.

  It was in the angles of a perfectly cut beam.

  It was in the problem-solving of an engineer.

  It was in the small moments when you chose to make something instead of staying silent.

  Whitaker was right.

  The world didn’t reward creators.

  But maybe… that was why they were so important.

  The snow-covered peaks of northern Italy stretched endlessly beyond the window, the landscape blanketed in an untouched sheet of white. Inside his grandmother’s cozy home, the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering broth filled the air, a stark contrast to the frozen world outside.

  Ezra sat by the crackling fireplace, watching the flames dance as warmth seeped into his bones. It was Quarantine month, a time when the world collectively paused, a tradition that had evolved from an old precaution into something more—something sacred. Cities slowed, businesses closed, and people retreated to their homes to rest, reflect, and reconnect. For Ezra, this year’s Quarantine felt different.

  His father had given him a small, wrapped box early in the month. "Something different for you this year," Seth had said, his rough hands ruffling Ezra’s hair before stepping back with a smirk.

  Ezra peeled away the paper and lifted the lid, his breath catching at the sight of a sleek microscope, its polished frame gleaming in the firelight. He ran his fingers over the fine-tuned adjustment knobs, the smooth glass slides waiting to reveal a world invisible to the naked eye.

  “A microscope?” Ezra looked up at his father, brow raised. “I thought you wanted me to do something hands-on.”

  Seth chuckled. “You think your hands are the only things that need training? You’ve spent so much time looking at the big picture, I figured it’s time you start looking at the small stuff, too.”

  Ezra turned back to the microscope, a curiosity stirring within him. He had never considered it before, but beneath the surface of everything—every object, every living thing—there was an entirely different world, hidden from view.

  Later that evening, he set up the microscope by the window, using a sample of snow as his first subject. Adjusting the focus, he peered inside. What he saw changed the way he looked at winter forever.

  The frozen world outside wasn’t just ice and cold—it was a universe of crystalline structures, each snowflake unique in its design. The details were breathtaking, symmetrical and fragile, like tiny blueprints of nature’s own artistry. It was chaos and order, all at once.

  “That’s life, kid,” his father said from behind him, watching over his shoulder. “Doesn’t look like much until you take a closer look.”

  Ezra leaned back, exhaling. He had spent his whole life studying the stars, the universe, the big things. But right here, in the tiniest frozen fragments of water, there was something just as profound.

  He hadn’t expected Quarantine to turn into a lesson in perspective.

  Despite the peaceful atmosphere inside, the reality of the mountain winter outside was harsh and unforgiving. Seth was determined to make sure his son could handle it.

  “You never know when you’ll need to survive in the cold,” his father said one morning, tossing him a thick coat. “Better to know now than figure it out when it’s too late.”

  Ezra wasn’t about to argue. His father had always believed that preparedness wasn’t just about survival—it was about self-reliance, about making sure when trouble came, you already had the answers.

  The first lesson was building a snow shelter.

  Seth led him out into the untouched snow and showed him how to carve out a snow cave, compacting the walls to insulate against the wind. “Snow’s funny,” he explained as he dug. “Cold on the outside, but if you trap the right amount of air, it actually keeps warmth in. People freeze to death out here because they don’t understand how to use what’s around them.”

  Ezra crawled inside the small shelter, and to his surprise, it was noticeably warmer than the biting wind outside. It felt like a hidden sanctuary in the middle of a frozen wasteland.

  Next was starting a fire in wet conditions.

  Seth handed him a small flint and steel. “Forget lighters and matches. What if you don’t have them?”

  Ezra gritted his teeth as he scraped the steel against the flint, sending sparks into a bundle of dry grass and birch bark. Again and again, until finally—a tiny ember caught. He cupped it, feeding it oxygen, until the small flicker of flame grew into something more.

  “Good,” Seth said with approval. “Fire’s easy when everything’s dry. The real test is knowing how to find fuel when everything’s wet.” He kicked at a log covered in snow, then pointed at the inside. “See that? Dry wood inside, even though the outside’s soaked. Always look deeper.”

  Ezra filed that lesson away, knowing it applied to more than just firewood.

  The last survival lesson was navigation in the snow.

  The mountains could be deceiving—everything looked the same, white stretching endlessly in every direction. Seth taught him how to find his way using natural landmarks, the stars, and a simple compass.

  “The sun rises in the east, sets in the west,” his father reminded him. “If you ever get lost, take a deep breath. Think. The moment you panic, you’re already dead.”

  Ezra nodded, gripping the compass in his gloved hand. He felt the weight of his father’s words, the quiet certainty behind them.

  Their last night in the mountains, Ezra and his father stood outside, watching the sky stretch out above them. The stars glittered against the dark, unpolluted by city lights.

  Seth crossed his arms, exhaling into the cold air. “You know, when I was younger, I didn’t think much about the future. I just worked, got through the day. But that’s not enough, Ezra.”

  Ezra turned to him, waiting.

  “If you stay ready, you never have to get ready,” Seth continued. “That’s not just about survival—it’s about everything. Life doesn’t wait for you to prepare. It doesn’t care if you’re caught off guard. The only way to stay ahead is to always be ready. Stay prepared so you don’t have to scramble to get prepared.”

  Ezra nodded, thinking back to the lessons of the past few days. His father wasn’t just talking about snow shelters and fire-starting. He was talking about life itself.

  Better to be prepared. Better to have the answers before the questions even come.

  Ezra looked down at the microscope in his hands, then back at the vast sky above. The smallest things and the biggest things—both held mysteries waiting to be uncovered.

  And this winter?

  This winter, he had learned how to see both.

  The wind had shifted.

  Ezra felt it first as a whisper against his exposed cheeks, the way the light snowfall suddenly thickened into something heavier, more relentless. His father noticed it too. Seth stopped stacking firewood onto the sled, squinting at the sky with a look Ezra had come to recognize.

  It was the look of calculated concern—not panic, not fear, but the realization that the situation had just changed.

  “Time to move,” Seth said, tightening his coat. “Storm’s coming in faster than I thought.”

  Ezra glanced around. The mountains, once clear and sharp against the horizon, were already blurring into a sheet of white.

  They were at least a half-hour from Nonna’s house.

  A shiver ran down his spine, but he nodded. No arguing. No wasting time.

  They had been out here long enough to know that hesitation could mean the difference between getting home or getting lost.

  Seth motioned for him to take the front of the sled while he pulled from behind. Ezra’s boots crunched against the thickening snow as they started moving. The wind howled louder, cutting through the trees, swirling around them with a force that was growing by the second.

  Within minutes, visibility plummeted.

  What had been a manageable snowfall was quickly turning into a full-blown whiteout.

  Ezra kept his eyes ahead, trying to spot familiar landmarks, but the world was disappearing around them. The trail they had followed was gone, erased beneath the relentless flurry. He glanced back at his father, but Seth’s expression remained calm.

  Then, a strong gust slammed into them.

  Ezra stumbled, dropping to one knee as the wind howled like a living thing, carrying ice and snow with it. The sled lurched sideways, half-buried now.

  Seth let out a sharp breath, then made a decision.

  “We’re not making it back like this,” he said, his voice barely cutting through the wind. He gestured to a nearby ridge. “We need to dig in. Now.”

  Ezra hesitated, his breath coming faster.

  Dig in? That meant—

  His father crouched low, already clearing a space in the snow, his movements swift and practiced. Ezra swallowed the lump in his throat and followed, pushing aside his rising panic.

  Snow shelter. Insulation. Survive first, worry later.

  The next twenty minutes were a blur of shoveling, carving, packing snow into walls. Ezra followed his father’s instructions, working with the elements instead of against them.

  They built the shelter low and narrow, using their own body heat to trap warmth inside. The opening faced away from the wind, angled just enough to let in fresh air without exposing them to the full brunt of the storm.

  By the time they crawled inside, Ezra was shaking—not just from cold, but from adrenaline.

  The wind screamed outside, rattling through the trees, but inside the shelter, the world felt muted.

  Seth adjusted his gloves and let out a slow breath. “Good work.”

  Ezra exhaled, pressing his back against the curved wall. “Yeah, great. Fantastic. Love almost dying with you, Dad.”

  Seth chuckled, shaking the snow from his coat. “This is far from almost dying, kid. This is called being smart.”

  Ezra let out a breathless laugh, still catching up to the situation. “Smart would’ve been not getting caught in this.”

  Seth shrugged. “Storm came in fast.”

  Ezra gave him a flat look. “Weathermen exist.”

  His father smirked. “Yeah. And they’re wrong half the time.”

  Ezra sighed and pulled his knees to his chest. He could still feel the remnants of panic buzzing under his skin, but the shelter was surprisingly warm, the packed snow keeping the wind at bay. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing steadied.

  Seth studied him for a moment, then spoke again.

  “You ever wonder why people focus so much on planning for everything?”

  Ezra frowned. “Isn’t that kind of the point? If you don’t plan, things go wrong.”

  “Sure,” Seth said, resting his forearm on his knee. “But things go wrong anyway.”

  Ezra didn’t have an argument for that.

  Seth continued. “People spend their lives trying to predict what’ll happen next, but the truth is, most of the time, plans don’t go the way you want them to.” He gestured to the shelter. “Case in point.”

  Ezra exhaled, still feeling the adrenaline in his fingertips. “So what’s the alternative? Just... wing it?”

  Seth shook his head. “No. You plan for yourself. Not the world.”

  Ezra tilted his head, intrigued now. “What do you mean?”

  Seth leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out. “You can’t predict every storm, every problem, every failure. You can’t always see what’s coming. But you can understand your own strengths, your own limits, and how to adapt.”

  Ezra let that sink in.

  "You knew how to build a shelter," Seth continued. "You knew how to keep moving until it was time to stop. You knew how to handle yourself. That’s why we’re fine right now."

  Ezra nodded slowly.

  "You want to survive life?" Seth asked. "Forget planning for everything. Instead, plan for yourself. Learn how to handle the unexpected. Learn how to adjust when things fall apart. That’s how you stay ahead."

  Ezra stared at the wall of packed snow in front of him.

  His father was right.

  For years, Ezra had thought success came from having the perfect plan, making the right moves at the right time. But plans fell apart. Life threw storms and setbacks without warning. The real key to survival wasn’t controlling the future—it was controlling yourself.

  The wind outside howled, but the lesson had already settled deep in his bones.

  By the time the storm calmed, the world outside had been reshaped—drifts of snow piled high, trees coated in white, a quiet so thick it felt like another world.

  They emerged from their shelter into a crisp, blue morning, the sun reflecting off the snow like glass.

  Ezra dusted off his coat, stretching stiff muscles. “Well. That was a great bonding experience.”

  Seth smirked. “Memorable, at least.”

  Ezra chuckled, but his mind was still turning over the lesson from the night before.

  They started the trek back toward Nonna’s house, their boots crunching through fresh snow.

  As they walked, Seth gave him a sideways glance. “So. What’d you learn?”

  Ezra took a moment before answering.

  “Not to rely on weathermen.”

  Seth snorted. “Smartass.”

  Ezra smiled, then exhaled. “That I can’t plan for everything. But I can plan for myself.”

  Seth nodded, satisfied. “That’s the one.”

  They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, father and son, leaving their tracks in the untouched snow behind them.