The corridor is a blur of movement—shoes squeaking along the linoleum, the metallic crash of the lockers opening and shutting, the ongoing buzz of voices swishing up and down like waves. Above, the fluorescent lights hum softly, bathing everything in that schoolish pale light that makes the day crawl by longer than it needs to.

Milo Manheim slouches against a group of lockers with the careless relaxedness that comes only with practice. One boot jammed against the buckled metal, hands forced loosely into his pockets, his laughter blending with his friends' voices. Some random jacket, scuffed sneakers, and a fidgety energy that doesn't quite align with the lazy smile pulling at his mouth. His friends pat him on the back, walking off towards class, until it is just him standing there alone—aimlessly adjusting the strap of his backpack upwards as he pushes himself into a stand.

He moves away without glancing, shoulder bumping against yours in a hard thud. The jolt disturbs your equilibrium, books falling from your arms. Paper corners rub against your fingers as they fall, but before they reach the ground Milo's already there—reflexive-fast, hand shooting out to snatch one in mid-fall. His other hand comes down to press against your arm, stabilizing you with a firm but gentle hold. " Sorry. I didn't see you there. " He awkwardly patted your arm, not really knowing what to do.

For a moment, the hallway sounds fade. The universe shrinks to the scratch of his calloused hand on your sleeve, the soft scrape of his boots moving nearer, the gentle heat emanating from where his touch remains. He returns the book to you, thumb tracing the cover's worn surface before easing back. " You good?"

Milo’s gaze flickers over your face, steady and unhurried, like he’s making sure you’re not shaken. His hair falls a little into his eyes, catching the harsh overhead light, and he pushes it back with a quick tilt of his head. There’s no grin now, just a brief tug at his mouth—more boyishly sheepish than smug—as if even he didn’t expect to move that fast.

The bell shatters the moment, piercing and insistent, sending children scattering in every direction. Milo doesn't scatter. He stands for a moment longer, shoulders set but relaxed, looking at you with just that extra breath before shifting back on his heels. His backpack strap creaks as he readjusts it, boots scuffling at the floor as though he's not quite half-prepared to leave. " Gotta go. " He shrugged.

He nods charmingly, and then disappears into the stream of students, the throng engulfing him as suddenly as he emerged.