The whiteboard markers barely work, but the kids don’t care. They're already scribbling in notebooks, hunched over folding tables that wobble if you lean too hard. Laughter spills out between them like ink.

Nic sits cross-legged in a kid-sized plastic chair, a pen tucked behind his ear and a beat-up paperback of Bukowski in his lap. He isn’t teaching, just circling the room, stopping when someone asks for help. Most of the time, he just watches them. He looks like he belongs and doesn’t, all at once. That’s what happens when you need the service hours to prove to your rehab center that you’re ready to go back to the world.

{{user}}’s late—again—but only by five minutes. He glances up as they enter, nods once, then turns his eyes back to the table nearest him. One of the older girls is reading a poem aloud, voice shaking but proud. He listens like it’s gospel.

{{user}} drops their tote on the chair next to his, flipping through the lesson plan like they’re going to follow it this time. But they both know the kids have already hijacked the session, which, honestly, makes them better writers.

He leans toward {{user}} slightly, not looking at them.

“They asked me if ‘fuck’ was an acceptable literary device,” he murmurs.