"In short, Picasso was regarded as one of the most influential artists of the time - thanks to his daring capabilities and bold use of colour - something the population hadn't seen much of until him."

Michael leans back against his desk, eyeing his circle of students as he continues. 'Groundwork' he calls it. Though Michael is evidently the type of teacher to leave his students to their own devices, today he's choosing to give an introduction.

It's the third class back following Christmas break, and Sophie and Harry have yet to say a word to one another. Harry can't refrain from shooting her the occasional glance, and frankly, Sophie can't refrain from doing the same. It's back and forth - relentless silence.

"Picasso painted in a naturalistic manner through his childhood and adolescence," Michael continues, "his greatest pieces consist of Guernica, and Les Demois d'Avignon-"

"Demoiselles." A quiet voice interrupts.

Michael falls silent, turning his head to follow the sound, as the rest of the class does.

Harry doesn't realise he's spoken up and corrected him until the silence becomes deafening.

"What, Harry?"

Everyone's eyes are on him, including Sophie's, and he can feel his cheeks beginning to burn. This is the first time Sophie has heard a word from him since their return to school.

"It's, uh.." he bites his lip, knowing he has to follow through, "it's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon."

Sophie's lips involuntarily quirk up into a half smile, as she forces herself to look down at her lap. Three months ago Harry wouldn't have dared to speak in a room full of people - and despite the fact it was accidental this time - it proves that his guard isn't so firmly up. 

"Thank you, Harry," Michael has a small smile on his face, as he nods genuinely at Harry, who looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

As Sophie looks up, she sees Harry staring profusely at the floor as if debating his entire existence, and she sees Layla staring at him as if she's ready to pounce on him. Sophie tries her best not to roll her eyes, bringing her lip between her teeth.

"My point still stands," Michael continues, "Picasso wasn't afraid to rebel against societal conventions; to break what was considered the 'norm'. Picasso was bold. And that's what I want you guys to be."

Michael pauses, eyes gleaming as he scans over the circle, before continuing, "Your next piece needs to be loud. Big. And so you'll be partnering up."

Harry's heart drops to the pit of his stomach, as does Sophie's. Layla sits back in her chair, a wide smirk on her face as she glances at Harry, prepared to ask him to partner up with her.

"I'll be choosing your pairs, before you all get excited. Pilar with Jason, Becca with Rosie.." He continues, pairing up members of the class with others. 

"Layla with.." he looks around in thought, glancing at the left side of the circle, "Serena. Harry, you go with Sophie."

And for the second time, Harry's heart drops to the pit of his stomach - as does Sophie's. The dreaded conversation is now officially unavoidable. 

"Class dismissed. Knock it out of the park," Michael claps his hands together, as the bell sounds and everybody stands up. 

"Harry-"

"Harry-"

Both girls pause, as Harry stands up, glancing between the two of them, unsure of what to do. Sophie's eyebrows raise, and she does her best not to scoff, and Layla rolls her eyes, sending Sophie a glare.

"You know what?" Sophie shakes her head, "s'okay. I just wanted to know when we could work on the project."

Harry doesn't know whether to feel upset because she doesn't want to talk about what happened, or relieved because she doesn't want to talk about what happened. Either way, he realises she's now waiting on a response, and he has to give her one.

"U-Um, how about you come t-to the flat?" Harry says slightly shakily, and Sophie tries to prevent her face from falling. He stopped stuttering with nerves around her months ago. "Tonight, maybe?"

"Uh, yeah," she nods slowly, "I can be there for six."

"Great," Harry tries to sound enthusiastic. Truth be told, the idea of being in a room - alone - with Sophie again is enough to make his palms sweat, but he won't dare to admit it.

"Great," Sophie returns, voice lacking as much enthusiasm as Harry's, as she glances once more at Layla beside Harry, and bites her lip. She walks away, trying not to contemplate if he's already replaced her with Layla.

It's a little past six when Sophie knocks on the door to Harry's apartment, and it only takes a few seconds for him to open the door. He stands in front of her, in sweatpants, sock, and a t-shirt, a slightly bewildered look on his face, despite expecting Sophie's arrival.

"Hi," she says awkwardly.

"Hi back," he responds, forcing a small smile onto his face, "come in." He steps aside, and she nods slowly, walking into the apartment.

Nerves start to build in his stomach once more, as he recalls the last time she was here - what had gone down. He shakes his head, pushing the thought from his mind.

"U-Um.." he trails off, shuffling awkwardly from foot-to-foot. He opens his mouth to speak, before cutting himself off with a sigh. 

"I know," Sophie responds quietly, as he simply nods once. She knows he doesn't know what to say, because she doesn't know what to say, herself. "Can we sit down?"

He nods.

Sophie sits down at the kitchen table, and pulls out the seat beside her, nudging it outward and nodding to Harry. He sits down beside her, trying to halt the nervous shake of his leg.

"You don't have to say anything," Sophie glances at his hand on the table in front of him, as if she's tempted to intertwine her fingers with his ring-clad ones, but she ignores the temptation, looking back into his nervous green irises, "but I just want to talk if that's okay."

Harry nods, grateful that Sophie understands what he's thinking. Though he's been tempted to avoid this inevitable conversation at all costs, simply being back in her presence has brought him to realise how much he's missed her. Over the past few weeks, there had been a yearning emptiness inside of him, to be filled only by the content of her.

"I owe you a 'thank you', first of all," Sophie watches him closely. "I can't even begin to thank you for bringing Alice to me over Christmas. I had no idea you were planning to do that and I'd never have dreamed somebody would do something like that. It was so thoughtful - so, so good of you, I-" she pauses, blowing out a breath. "Nobody's ever done anything like that for me before. Thank you, Harry. I can't thank you enough, as dreary as it sounds."

"She wasn't supposed to tell you it was me," he responds quietly, and a small smile tugs on Sophie's lips.

"You should take credit for doing good."

"D-Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose of doing good at all?" He's still nervous.

Sophie nods, trying to prevent her smile from growing. Only Harry would think that way; refuse to brag about his good doings. 

"And, if it's okay," she looks for clarification, "I want to talk about what happened before you left." This isn't what she'd planned at all. In fact, her plan had been to thank him, and then just drop the subject. But now, sitting face-to-face with him; she realises she can't just drop it. There's no way she'll be able to act like it didn't happen - not only would she be unable to for her own sake, but it would be selfish to do such a thing, regardless. Harry deserves an explanation, and she's going to give him one. 

"Soph," he says quietly, and she tries to ignore the warm swelling in her chest at the simplicity of his words. Why is everything so prominent now? She can feel her heart warming and butterflies forming in the pit of her stomach every time she looks at him. Everything seems heightened - each time she watches him push his hand through his curls, and the way his white t-shirt hugs his biceps, and ohmygod, how many tattoos does he have? She's never noticed them in this depth before - how has she never noticed them in this depth before? His skin is littered with inkings; she can even see a few on his torso through the faded fabric of his shirt.. is that a butterfl-

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he tries to sound confident, but can't mask the tinge of sadness in his tone, "I made a stupid mistake - I shouldn't have done it. I know you don't feel that way about me, and I should've just kept it to myself-"

"No," she interrupts a little too quickly, "it's not that. It's not you, at all. You're wrong - it's the opposite, and I-" her breath hitches slightly in her throat, and she forces out a slow exhale, "I think I need to tell you something."