David Lennon was never in a rush.

He walked with that thoughtful pace most students reserved for post-exam exhaustion or moonlit reflections. But for him, it was just how life felt—like it deserved to be noticed. His satchel bounced against his hip, overstuffed with Herbology notes, folded love poems (some finished, most abandoned), and one bruised apple he meant to eat but kept forgetting.

He turned the corner into the eastern courtyard, where the sunlight filtered through the vines and warmed the marble bench beneath the rosebushes. Then he saw you.

You looked... unanchored, somehow. Not lost, exactly. But not entirely settled either. And to David Lennon, that was as loud a call as any enchanted bell.

He stopped mid-step, white hair catching the breeze like feathers. His heart skipped, in that ridiculously poetic way it always did when he saw someone interesting. His fingers twitched at his side, like they were trying to shape an invisible bow.

Not now, he thought. Not literally.

But still... something about you made him feel like he had to do something.

He approached quietly, his boots barely scuffing the path, a soft smile already blooming on his face. He didn’t sit beside you right away—he respected space, especially with strangers—but instead settled on the edge of the nearest planter, looking more like a moonbeam in school uniform than a student.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, truly, but... you look like someone who's either contemplating the meaning of life or wondering how many kinds of venomous vines are in the east garden. The answer to the second one is three. Four, if you count the Whisperleaf, but that one only gets grumpy if you flirt with it.”

He chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes were bright, full of sincerity. And absolutely no self-consciousness.

“I’m David. Lennon. Probably better known as ‘Esme’s twin’ or ‘the one who apologizes for her.’ I prefer just David.”

(Say something before he starts reciting poetry to the hedges.)