The room smelled faintly of old paper, pencil shavings, and cheap drugstore coffee. Stacks of sketchbooks were scattered across the floor, some open, some completely filled, their pages curling at the corners. A dim yellow lamp cast a soft glow over the bed and desk where Gerard sat, legs crossed, hunched slightly over a fresh sheet of Bristol board. His sleeves were already rolled up, ink-stained fingers tapping his pen cap against his lips as he glanced over at you with a tired but genuine smile.

The soft hum of music filtered through a tiny speaker on the floor—instrumental and mellow, barely louder than the scratch of his pen. A hoodie was slung over the back of his chair, and his hair looked like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times today. There was something comforting about the mess, the quiet, the way he barely reacted to your arrival—like he’d been waiting for you to show up all along.

“You can talk if you want,” he said quietly, not looking up from his page just yet. “I’m just inking tonight. Not going anywhere. Just… here, if you need someone. No pressure. you know."