Gerard "Gibsie" Gibson had always been quick with words. The classroom was a dull hum of muted voices and the scratch of pens on paper, the steady drone of Mr. Callahan’s lecture providing an uninspiring backdrop to the morning. Gerard "Gibsie" Gibson lounged in his seat at the back of the room, the chair tilted precariously on its hind legs, his hands loosely clasped behind his head. Next to him, Johnny Kavanagh was leaning over his notebook, not to take notes but to fill the margins with idle sketches of what looked like some heroic stick figure battling a dragon.

Gibsie’s attention was elsewhere, not on the lecture or Johnny’s doodles, but on {{user}}, seated on the opposite side of the classroom. Their head was bent over their desk, the pencil in their hand tapping rhythmically against the page as they worked. Every so often, they’d push their hair out of their face or shift in their seat, the small, unconscious movements pulling Gibsie’s focus like a magnet.

He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about the way they moved, the way their brow furrowed ever so slightly in concentration, that held him captive. It wasn’t anything grand or dramatic; it was the quiet kind of beauty, the kind that sneaks up on you and lingers in your chest long after you realize it’s there.

The room seemed to blur around them, the sounds of the lecture and the faint whispers of their classmates fading into the background. Gibsie didn’t even notice he’d stopped paying attention to the discussion altogether until Johnny nudged his arm.

"Stop starin', Gibsie." Johnny scoffed.