Moylo Banks wasn’t one for sitting still, especially not with a German textbook open in front of him. Rugby? Easy. A fight? Even easier. But foreign languages? That was a feckin’ nightmare.

Yet here he was, hunched over a desk in the Halston estate’s study, his leg bouncing under the table as he stared at the scribbled German notes in front of him. Across from him, {{user}} looked far more composed, tapping their pen against the open page, waiting for him to try again.

He sighed, running a hand through his already tousled dark curls. “This is torture, mate.” His Scottish accent thickened with frustration, words dragging as he slumped further into his chair. “Why do I even need to know how to say ‘Ich habe einen Hund’? I don’t even have a dog.”

{{user}} didn’t respond with words—just a pointed look that made his stomach tighten slightly. They always had that effect on him, the kind that made it hard to tell if it was admiration or just pure frustration. Maybe both.

Moylo groaned dramatically before straightening up, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Fine, fine. Ich… habe… einen Hund,” he muttered, barely trying.

A sigh from {{user}}, but not an annoyed one. Patient, amused, like they already knew he’d complain before making an effort.

“You’re actually not bad at it,” they finally said, offering a small nod.

Moylo scoffed, rolling his shoulders back. “You saying I’m smart?” He smirked, tilting his head, voice laced with lazy charm. “Careful now, I might start believin’ it.”