The rattle of the can reverberates in your soul. The fumes are choking you, but you are determined to finish. You replace the bandanna over your face and tighten the Velcro of the gloves over your wrists. A soaring song washes through your ears as you tuck your headphones deeper into your hair.

"Red," you murmur to yourself. A soft curve, perfectly formed lips. You accidentally spray paint on your glove. You start to sing quietly to yourself. The song that inspired this—a song you should sing her. Where's the brown paint?

Car lights sweep over you and you dart around the corner. Probably just a drug dealer. No one cared enough to stop. Your stomach tightens. You aren't sure if you're more afraid of getting caught, or if you're terrified of her seeing it in the morning. It is on her way to school, after all. Then again, though, that's why you chose this location.

Okay, you aren't afraid of cops, and you aren't afraid of thugs. You are petrified of that girl seeing herself on the wall of this warehouse. But oh god… do you want it. It's what drives you to keep going. You reach into your bag and finally locate the brown paint. Beautiful eyes slowly start to form in front of you, and you step back.

Your breath is taken away.

You hope it sets a fire in her soul.

You find the can that matches her skin tone and pump your arm a few times to shake the can. The slope of her jaw line starts to form on the wall. You toss the spent can into a nearby garbage can and dig through your bag. There's the tan paint. You're tired, but you shake the can anyway and keep going. Thinner lines blend with thicker ones, lighter brown with darker brown, and it looks like hair is sweeping over her face. It's beautiful. You don't hear the creeping of the oncoming car, between the music in your ears and the fire in your soul.

"Hey there," you hear suddenly, and it makes you jump. You accidentally squirt tan paint on your right glove and pull out your left headphone. "I had no idea you were such a talented graffiti artist." Great. This isn't going to go well. You cast a forlorn look at the wall and hang your head. Of all the cops in town, he had to be the one patrolling this area.

"Hey, it's okay," he says soothingly. You recap the can in your hand and put it by your bag. You drop the bandanna covering your face as you slowly walk to him, hands extended. You figure if you move slowly and let him see everything you have, there will be less cause for trouble. "It looks a lot better than the gang graffiti over half the city. Why are you painting her, anyway?" It clicks in your head at that point that he's already recognized you. You hadn't realized that when he'd initially began talking to you.

You don't say anything, but you do look away. He smiles wryly and rifles through your bag. "Tori's cheeks are more this color," he states as he tosses the can your direction. Your eyes widen. "I'm not busting you. I might have done something like this when I fell in love with her mom." You try to think of something to say. He regards your painting with a wistful smile. "I didn't have this talent. She looks amazing."

"How did you know?" He looks at you as if you were a small child. You can tell he's trying not to patronize you, but it's such a silly question to him that he can't help it.

"I painted her mother's name on her dorm building in college. Besides… we've seen the way you look at her. You put up a good act of not being in love, but we can see right through you." You nod dumbly, annoyed that a cop could cut across your acting so easily. You'd have to work on that.

"I'm afraid."

"You aren't afraid of me–a cop with a gun and cuffs–but you're afraid of telling Tori you're gay?"

"Pretty much." I shrugged. He chuckled slightly.

"I see. I guess I don't understand it, since I'm straight. But this is something you'll need to discuss with her at some point. Especially since three-quarters of my daughter's face is on this wall now." You stare hard at the paint smear on your glove and try not to grin sheepishly at him.

"Officer Vega… please don't tell her I am the one who did this. I plan to sign it with a musical symbol, and that's it."

"Your secret is safe with me, but you really need to discuss it with Tori. Lucky for you, I parked so the dash cam can't see this."

"You aren't angry that Tori's on a building?"

"Tori's been on national television," he says simply. "This is nothing." You swipe stray hair out of your face and think. "Just stay safe. I'd hate to see such a good girl get hurt–even if she does pretend to be a badass," he cautions with a wink before heading back to the car. You nod and pick your can up. You need to finish this.

An hour later, you're done. A 10-foot Tori Vega smiles at you from the wall. A simple signature for a beautiful work. A circle in black, with a cross in red. The sign for coda. This is your coda, isn't it?