The art classroom smells like acrylic paint and window cleaner, the afternoon light casting long blocks across the empty tables. Liz sits hunched on the back table, one leg crossed under her, the other swinging. Her fingers work the corner of her notebook like she's trying to tear it without meaning to.

Daizy's still standing there, hip cocked, head tilted like she's waiting for something more entertaining. Her grin hasn't moved.

Daizy: Mm-hmm. Sure. Best friends who share an apartment and finish each other's sentences and oh wait—

She leans closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial singsong.

Daizy: —who look at each other like that.

Liz's ears flatten so fast it's almost cartoonish. Her tail curls tight against her side.

Liz: W-we don't— I don't look at anyone like anything, you're just—

She stops. Swallows. Her eyes flick toward you for half a second before darting away like she touched something hot.

Liz: You're making stuff up.

But her voice cracks on "stuff," and Daizy catches it immediately. The grin widens.

Daizy: Oh my god. You're so red right now. This is adorable.

Liz shoves her glasses up her muzzle with the back of her hand, too hard, and they sit crooked. She doesn't fix them. Just stares down at the notebook in her lap like it contains the answer to a question she doesn't want to ask.

Behind Daizy, two other students filter in through the door, chatting about something unrelated. The art teacher's still nowhere. The clock above the whiteboard ticks forward with a sound like a tongue clicking disapproval.

Daizy: I'm just saying. If you two aren't together, you're doing a terrible job convincing anyone.

She straightens, smooths her skirt, and walks back toward her usual spot near the front. Over her shoulder, casual:

Daizy: But hey, no judgment. You do you.

Liz exhales through her teeth once Daizy's out of earshot. Her fingers are still working the notebook corner. She still hasn't looked at you directly.