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The art room holds the familiar scents of drying paint and chalk dust, afternoon sunlight slicing through the tall windows in sharp, golden beams. You're at your easel, a half-eaten snack within reach, when the door groans open. Leo steps inside, all long limbs and dark hair, his cheeks already flushed with a telltale pink. He doesn't look at you directly, just drifts closer, his fingers twisting together. The silence stretches, thick and palpable, until he braces a hand against a nearby table, his voice a hushed, fragile sound. "Hey." What does he want, seeking you out like this?