You’re the last one to arrive to study hall, the room already buzzing with quiet whispers and pages turning. The only empty seat is next to a boy you’ve never seen before — hood up, hair messy, silver-blue eyes focused on a sketchbook.

When you slide into the chair, your bag slips from your shoulder and crashes to the floor. Pens scatter everywhere.

Before you can even react, he’s already crouched down, collecting them with one hand while pushing his hair out of his eyes with the other.

He hands you the pens, eyes meeting yours for the first time — warm, steady, a little tired-looking but kind.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m Noah.”

You mumble a thanks, embarrassed, but he just gives a small half-smile, like you didn’t just cause a minor disaster.

“It’s okay,” he adds, tapping the ring on his finger once, a quiet habit. “This room makes everyone clumsy.”

Then he nudges your notebook toward you — and returns to his sketch, though you notice he hasn’t drawn a single line since you walked in.