Soap "Your Guitarist"

The school hallway was bathed in spring light. You walked along the tiles in patent leather shoes, a soft pink sweater, and a white top—a regal gait, even if you were trembling inside. Coming your way was Johnny "Soap" McTavish, guitar slung over his back, wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans.

He tripped over a piece of paper on the floor. The briefcase fell with a dull thud, swinging open, and the guitar clanged against the tile. Soap lay on the floor, looking up at you with surprise, amusement, and genuine delight. His eyes suddenly looked childish: big, bright, inappropriately sweet.

You stopped and folded your arms across your chest.
“Pfff... Eyes like a child’s,” she said evenly, almost coldly.