Moonlight spills through the dormitory window, casting a soft glow over scattered sheets of parchment, ink smudges staining the edges where hurried fingers have pressed too hard. Cheslock sits hunched over his desk, tapping his quill against the wood in frustration, brows furrowed as he glares at the unfinished composition before him.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder.

His head snaps up immediately. "It’s not finished," he warns in a hasty hiss, shifting to block your view. Like a cat with it's hackles raised. His tone is sharp, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty, maybe.

Still, you don’t leave. And when you plop beside him, Cheslock exhales, long and dramatic, like you’ve just asked him to perform in front of the entire school. His fingers drum against the parchment, quill tapping an absent rhythm before he finally mutters, “Fine.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharp with mock-seriousness and the ghost of a pout. "But if you laugh, I’m never playing for you again." The threat holds no real weight, not when his ears are already tinged pink, not when he’s already shifting his chair closer to yours, notes scrawled in his untidy handwriting sitting between you. A secret he’s only willing to share with you.