This is Brat, a serialised NA/YA novel about alt-rock chaos, messy house shares, and the kind of love that leaves bruises. I’m posting it chapter by chapter here on Witch Snacks.
👉 New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3. Or go to the Chapter Index
Sadie
The fire was down to a soft crackle. My mug was warm against my fingers, coffee sliding into my bones, warm and golden. Outside, the wind had chilled out, traded itself for steady rain on the tin roof–like someone tapping out a lo-fi beat on loop.
Dev was stretched out on the floor by the fire, legs half-sprawled, guitar beside him.
He looked too much for the hut. Too tall. Too main character. Like the walls were trying to contain him… and failing.
“So,” he said, tossing me a glance. “You gonna tell me why you were out in the middle of a storm, stomping around like a cursed forest NPC?”
I shrugged. “Wasn’t meant to rain till tomorrow.”
“Boring answer.”
I sighed. “I was sketching. Trying to find, like... inspiration or whatever, for my portfolio.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Portfolio?”
“I’m an art student. Final year.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything. Just waited. So I kept talking.
“Everyone else at uni already has a thing, y’know? They’re all super online, constantly referencing weird video installations and niche meme pages. I’m just out here drawing rocks and trees like they have a tragic backstory.”
He tilted his head. “You say that like it’s bad.”
“Maybe it is?” I gave a small shrug. “I was homeschooled. Until year 12.”
His eyebrows jumped. I held up both hands. “Not in a cult way, I swear. Just... off-grid. Rural. I always feel like I missed the starter pack.”
He nodded, slow. “Yeah. I get that.”
That surprised me. He seemed like someone who’d been born stage-lit, with applause baked in. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Grew up in Sheffield. Working class. First time I hit London for work stuff; I didn’t know the language – just smiled and nodded and hoped no one clocked the panic.”
I snorted into my mug. “Relatable.”
He reached for his guitar but didn’t play. Just kind of looked over at me, all quiet and squinty.
“Can I see?”
“See what?”
“You came out here looking for inspiration. Bet there’s a sketchbook in that bag.”
I froze. Immediate full-body clampdown. But then I was already moving, already digging it out before my brain could veto. The cover was scuffed; pages warped from rain and charcoal and vibes. I handed it over like it might bite.
He sat up straighter and opened it, slow. Careful. Like it meant something.
No dumb commentary. No fake gasps or cringey oh-wow noises.
Just... silence.
My heart did a backflip.
Then, finally, he said, “You’ve got a brutal eye.”
I blinked. “Is that... good?”
He turned another page. “It’s the highest form of good. These? They’re trying to disappear and scream at the same time.”
I just stared. No tutor had ever put it like that. But that was it. That was the whole thing.
Me. Screaming quietly. Disappearing loud.
He flipped again, thumb resting on the paper. “And this one? Feels like it wants to be ten feet high on a wall somewhere. Like it’s not finished until strangers walk past it every day.”
That…hit a little close to home. I focused hard on the zipper of my hoodie.
When I looked back up, his expression had shifted. No swagger. No charm. Just him. Real and soft and a little bit cracked open.
“You got Insta?” he asked, still flipping.
“Um. Yeah. It’s mostly just... art stuff.”
“Lemme see.”
I hesitated, then unlocked my phone and handed it over, instantly regretting everything I’ve ever posted, ever.
He scrolled, silent. Every so often he paused longer than I was emotionally prepared for.
“This one,” he tilted the screen toward me. A pic of me up a scaffold, covered in paint and laughing. “…you actually have put stuff on walls. Ten feet high or more. Thought I was just being poetic, but nah. You’re already doing it.”
He scrolled, silently for a few more minutes, an expression I couldn’t quite read on his face.
“This is sick,” he said finally, handing the phone back. “You’re actually cracked.”
Praise made me weird. Always had. I looked away, defaulting to awkward silence.
“Draw me?” he said suddenly. “With the guitar. Just real quick. I wanna see what I look like through your eyes.”
I gave him a look. “That’s... wildly narcissistic.”
“Obviously,” he grinned. “But I’m asking nice.”
I grabbed the sketchbook and settled cross-legged on the floor. He leaned against the wall, guitar in his lap, arms draped over it like it was part of him – wrist loose, chin tilted, eyes half-lidded like he was mid-album cover.
I squinted at him.
“Do you always look like you’re trying to rizz up a camera?”
He grinned. “What, this isn’t my natural aura?”
I rolled my eyes, grinned, and started sketching.
Three studies – loose, fast, instinctive. The charcoal moved like thought, not like planning. I chased the curve of his spine, the tension coiled beneath his shoulder blades, the way his mouth never quite settled. He wasn’t still…not really. He pulsed with some low, internal hum, and my hand tried to keep up.
I didn’t draw him exactly as he was. I drew what he did to the air around him.
When I was done, I passed them over. He looked at the pages like they were artefacts. He’d wanted to see himself through my eyes, but now that he could, I wasn’t sure he liked the result.
He tapped the second sketch.
“Can I have this one?”
“If you want.”
“You gotta sign it.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Come on,” he grinned. “For the resale value.”
I rolled my eyes, but signed the bottom corner, my fingers leaving smudges at the bottom.
Then, smirking, he grabbed the second sketch, and signed it with a flourish.
“What are you doing?”
“Returning the favour,” he said, smugness wafting off him. “You’ll want that later.”
I snorted. “Deluded.”
“A little.”
We both laughed. The fire crackled, and the moment stretched into something looser, more companionable. Outside, the wind had softened. Inside, the air was warm and still.
He leaned back, arms over his guitar again, eyes on the ceiling.
“So,” he said after a beat. “Who’s your favourite artist?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Good. Loaded questions are my thing.”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Egon Schiele. Frances Hodgkins. Louise Bourgeois when I’m in a mood. There’s this Kiwi painter, Star Gossage… her stuff’s like memory and skin. It doesn’t always make sense, but it feels like something you’ve lived through.”
His brow lifted slightly. “That’s a hell of a description.”
“You asked,” I said, but softer now. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks – not from embarrassment, exactly, but from realising how easily I’d let that spill out.
He smiled, gaze flicking toward my sketchbook again. “Your work reminds me of all that. It’s kind of… ghosted. Like the lines don’t want to commit to being real.”
I snapped the sketchbook shut–not a slam, just… enough.
He didn’t move. Then his hand came up, thumb brushing my temple. “You’ve got charcoal,” he murmured. The pad of his finger lingered at my jaw, heat prickling under my skin. We were suddenly too close: fire popping, rain soft, his breath a warm little problem between us.
“Okay?” he asked — quiet, not performing.
I could have tilted my chin an inch and found his mouth. I felt the yes rise like a spark–and caught it before it burned. I slid the bottle from his other hand and took a swallow that tasted like old libraries and bad decisions.
He huffed a laugh, low. “Dodged.”
“Deflected,” I said.
“For now.”