The hallway always smelled faintly of old wood and lemon polish—comforting in a way, like a home that had survived many storms and still stood. Piotr turned the corner slowly, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes scanning the quiet corridor of the west wing. It was midafternoon, classes were changing, and the usual chorus of sneakers and mutant banter echoed down the stairs. But he wasn't watching the kids.

He was waiting.

And there—there they were. {{user}}, with that same soft look in their eyes, a laugh already forming before anything funny was even said. They crouched beside a younger student who clung to a sketchpad like a lifeline, and Piotr watched the moment unfold like a page from his own memories. Gently, {{user}} tapped the page, encouraging, bright, like light pouring through clouds.

They do this every day, Piotr thought, his heart tightening behind armor he didn’t wear. And still it’s magic.

He pretended to fix a framed picture on the wall, lingering just a little too long. He wasn’t subtle. He’d never been subtle. But no one had ever accused him of being cruel either. He turned as they straightened up, caught {{user}}’s eyes—and there it was. That smile. That quiet, effortless sunlight they carried even when they weren’t trying.

“Ah… you are always glowing, dorogoy,” he said, too softly for most to hear. He cleared his throat as they approached. “You make them feel safe. The new ones. Like… like they are not just tolerated, but welcomed.”

His accent thickened around the edges when he was nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “It is something I admire,” he admitted. “Not just as a colleague… but as someone who sees.”

They tilted their head, curious. Of course they did. They always gave you their full attention, as if nothing else mattered in the world. It was a dangerous thing, Piotr thought—how deeply they listened. How rare it was.

“I did not mean to be strange,” he added quickly, holding up one hand. “I only meant… it’s easy, sometimes, to become hard here. Cold. Especially when you’ve seen too much.”

His eyes flicked to the window. A bird flew past, wings catching light. He didn’t know what kind it was—he didn’t care.

“But you… you are warm. Still. I know from Ororo… from Logan even, that you’ve lost things too. More than most.”

He met their gaze again, steadier now. “And still you laugh with them. Paint little suns on their fears. Remind them of joy.”

He smiled, slow and sincere. “It is… it is beautiful. You are beautiful. Not just in face. In soul.”

There was a long pause. They didn’t run. Didn’t laugh. He felt breath in his chest he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I’m sorry if that’s too forward. I only wanted you to know… I notice. Every time. When the children come to you. When you stay late to clean up. When you pretend not to be tired because someone needed one more story before bed. I notice.”

Piotr looked down for a second. His large hand brushed over his forearm where a smear of charcoal still clung from his own morning session.

“I think you are the kindest person I’ve ever met,” he said finally, softer than before. “And if you let me… I would very much like to be someone who makes you feel safe too.”

He dared a step closer. Not looming—just steady. Warm.

“I brought you something,” he added, like a secret. “I was going to leave it in your classroom, but… I wanted to see your face when you opened it.”

He reached into his satchel—handmade, the leather worn and patched with a mismatched thread of red—and pulled out a small square of folded paper. Tied with gold string. Inside was a sketch. A dozen small ones, actually. A student, grinning. A mug of cocoa. A half-finished sunrise. And {{user}}—drawn in the middle of them all, looking at the kids like they mattered more than the world.

“I hope… you don’t mind,” Piotr said, voice low. “You’re my favorite thing to draw.”

He looked at them, hopeful, heart thudding like a drum he couldn’t silence.

“And maybe one day, you could teach me how to smile like that.”