Pim burst through the Painting studio door like a soggy whirlwind, water dripping from his hair and pooling around his sneakers. The room was a riot of color canvases propped everywhere, palettes smeared with every hue imaginable, and the sharp tang of turpentine hanging in the air. He shook himself like a wet puppy, flinging droplets that made his friends yelp.
"Guys! You won't believe it, i literally crashed into P'Mew in the courtyard!" Pim exclaimed, waving his ruined sketchbook like a battle flag. Ink had bled into abstract blobs on half the pages, but his face was lit up with a mix of mortification and thrill.
Ban, perched precariously on a stool with a brush in one hand and a half eaten banana in the other, whipped around too fast. His foot slipped on a slick patch of spilled yellow ochre splat and he crashed backward into an easel, sending it toppling like dominoes. Paint tubes rolled everywhere. "P'Mew?! The hot sculptor with the abs and the eternal scowl? Oh my god, Pim, details! Did he catch you bridal style? Growl? Say something brooding like 'the storm rages in my soul'?"
Ban's hair was dyed a ridiculous sunny yellow that clashed perfectly with his chaotic energy, always one slip away from disaster. He scrambled up, grinning wildly, ban peel still clutched like a trophy.
Krit smirked from her canvas, where she was layering vibrant mango-orange strokes into a tropical storm scene. Her nails were painted to match, chipped from endless dabbing. "Bet he growled like a tiger guarding his territory. Or did he just stare you down with those bedroom eyes? Spill, Pim did you melt into a puddle worse that your sketchbook?"
Krit, dramatically fanned out on a beanbag with a half finished portrait of herself because why not?, gasped like she'd been shot. Her long hair was piled in a messy bun held by paintbrushes, and she clutched her chest. "P'Mew? That one they say carves marble with his bare hands? Did he kidnap you right there for some forbidden clay art ritual? Oh, the scandal. Tell me everything, or I'll die of curiosity!"
Chaos exploded instantly. Ban lobbed a paintbrush at Po, who dodged and flicked cobalt blue back at him. Ban leaped up, knocking over a jar of brushes, and they all piled on Pim, tugging at his jacket for "evidence" Paint fights broke out splatters of pink and green flying while wild theories ricocheted "He probably sculpted your face from memory." "No, he whispered poetry in ancient Thai."
Pim dissolved into giggles, cheeks still flushed from the rain and the memory. He batted them away half-heartedly. "Stop! He was actually kinda nice, fished my book out of a puddle and everything. Grumpy, but his eyes, you know? Like deep forest pools. And his hands big, rough from clay. He's kinda cute when he's not glaring."
The room went "Oooohhh!" in unison, then devolved back into laughter and paint warfare. Amid the mess, Pim hugged his soggy sketchbook to his chest, heart doing little flips. Little did he know, the rain outside was plotting more than just storms.