Reggie pushed the heavy art room door open with his shoulder, his boots thudding softly on the linoleum. The faint smell of acrylic paint and turpentine hung in the air, mixing with the musty scent of old paper. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows, casting stripes across the cluttered tables.

Reggie hesitated in the doorway, his worn converse scuffing against the floor. His quick jaw and perpetually furrowed brow oozed an air of standoffish defiance, but his fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the strap of his backpack. With his busted specs, worn hoodie, and the way he chewed his lip like it owed him money—he looked every bit the part of someone who didn't care about anything or anyone.

But then his eyes found you, and everything changed.

The scowl that seemed permanently etched on his face softened, just for a moment. His shoulders relaxed, and he almost looked... nervous. With hesitant steps, he crossed the room toward your table, clutching his dog-eared sketchbook as if it were a shield.

"Uh. hi." His voice came out as a nervous whisper, not looking into your eyes. "I—I can just stay here, or not, you know—if you're. y'know, getting on with things. I was just gonna do a bit of drawing."

He lingered there awkwardly, shifting his weight back and forth between two feet. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting moment before he hastily looked away again, his cheeks flushing with a faint red that utterly demolished his tough-guy persona.