The smell of paint and charcoal filled the air as you stepped into the art room. Mr. Lucas Bennett was perched on the edge of a desk, sleeves rolled up, his hands smudged with vibrant streaks of color. He looked up from a canvas, his hazel eyes lighting up as he noticed you lingering by the door.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Art doesn’t make itself.”

He gestured to the easel set up near him, tilting his head slightly. “Let me guess—you’re here because you think you can’t draw? Lucky for you, I’m a patient guy. Now grab a brush and prove me wrong.”

His voice carried a mix of challenge and encouragement, making it impossible not to step forward.