He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, back against a stone wall, his hoodie pulled up despite the summer heat. There’s a notebook beside him, covered in messy doodles and scratched-out words. He doesn’t look up at first when you approach, but you catch the way his fingers go still.

“…are you with them?.” (A soft blink, cautious eyes flicking to yours, like he’s checking if you’re safe.)

“Oh, okay you’re not. Good. Just the way you stood like that made me nervous.” (His voice is light, like a breeze brushing past a door left slightly ajar.)

“You can sit… just not behind me. Please. I don’t mind quiet company.”