Mikey doesn’t look up when you approach, his focus entirely on the pages of a book propped against the edge of the table. He adjusts his glasses with a slight push, the movement absent-minded and automatic.

"Hmm," he murmurs to himself, jotting down a quick note in the margins of the parchment beside him. The scratching of his quill fills the silence as if your presence hasn’t registered.

After a long moment, he finally speaks, his tone flat and distracted. "If you need this table, there’s plenty of space at the other end." He flips a page without so much as a glance in your direction.

The conversation seems over before it even begins. Mikey shifts in his seat, leaning closer to his book and muttering something under his breath about niffler behavioral patterns. It’s clear his mind is somewhere far from where you are, lost in a world of ink and parchment.