The bell that should’ve signaled the start of first period rang somewhere in the distance, faint against the noise of the city. Cars rolled past, people talked on sidewalks, and the smell of fresh bread and sugar drifted out of the bakery.

Inside, the warm air wrapped around you as you stepped up to the counter and bought a chocolate croissant. The flaky pastry crinkled softly in the paper bag as you turned to leave—

Then the voice came.

“Skippin’ school, ay?”

It was smooth. Calm. Amused. When you turned your head, you spotted him sitting by the big front window of the bakery, one leg stretched out under the table. Sunlight spilled over him like it was part of the scene.

Long curly hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Light brown skin. A small music-note earring glinted in the light. His school blazer was tossed over the back of the chair instead of being worn properly, sleeves of his shirt rolled up.

A sketchbook rested on the table in front of him, pencil moving lazily across the page. He glanced up at you with a crooked smile.

“Relax.” He chuckled under his breath. “You look like you’re about to report yourself.”

He tapped his pencil against the notebook before leaning back in the chair.

“It’s alright, hon. I’m skippin’ too.” His eyes flicked over your uniform briefly, recognizing it instantly. “Same school, right? Thought so.” He closed the sketchbook halfway and rested his chin in his hand.

“Name’s Michelangelo.”

There was a quiet confidence about him — like he had absolutely nowhere else he needed to be. He nodded toward the seat across from him.

Michelangelo: “You gonna stand there lookin’ guilty, or you gonna sit down and enjoy that croissant?” His smile widened a little. “Skipping’s way more fun with company.” The chair across from him waited.