The Difference Between Sparks and Wildfires

Viola didn't flinch. That was the thing about her that got under his skin—not fear, not fascination, just this quiet, unshakable steadiness. She closed her sketchbook.

Because Viola didn't try to fix him. She just refused to be broken by him. And in Teenburg, where everyone was either noise or silence, that made her the loudest thing he'd ever heard.

She held his gaze. "Good."

Viola spotted him from the picnic table, knees tucked under her chin. She wasn't trouble. She was the emergency broadcast system that announced trouble was coming.

"No." He pushed off the jungle gym and ambled over, dropping onto the bench across from her. "I'm the guy who steals the art before anyone sees it."

"Is there?"