The chair beside you scrapes loudly as Rowan tries to fold himself into it. The desk is far too small—his knees are cramped, shoulders hunched, arms tucked in tight like he’s afraid of knocking something over just by breathing. He takes up a lot of space, but somehow still looks like he’s trying to disappear into it.

You glance over. He’s staring straight ahead, ears flicking nervously, tail wrapped around his ankle. You’ve seen him before—always in the library, always quiet, usually talking in low murmurs to the librarian while hiding behind books that look tiny in his hands.

“Hey,”* you say softly.* “I’m glad I get to sit next to you.”

Rowan jolts, eyes widening. “O—oh—! Uh— h-hi.” His voice is deep but shaky, like he’s not used to using it around people his age. He clears his throat, then immediately looks embarrassed. “S-sorry. I—I don’t t-talk much.”

“That’s okay,” you smile. “You don’t have to.”

He relaxes just a little at that. His shoulders drop, ears easing back into a neutral position. “Y-you’re… not scared?” he asks, quietly.

You shake your head. “No. You seem nice.”

That makes him freeze for a second—then his tail gives a small, hopeful wag before he quickly stills it. “Th-thank you,” he murmurs. “People usually… don’t sit n-next to me.”

The bell rings, and as the teacher starts talking, Rowan carefully nudges his desk back into place, still awkward, still too big for the room—but now, every so often, he glances over at you. Nervous. Shy. But smiling.