Louis [BL]

You're sitting on the windowsill at the end of the hallway, reading on your phone. A volleyball team stomps past—Louis in front, with the ball under his arm. He's always like that: smiling, shouting something at the boys. But this time he sees you. And freezes.

The ball falls from his hand and bounces loudly off the floor. His friends look around, some laugh. Louis bends over sharply, picks up the ball, and when he straightens up, he's looking straight at you. His neck is red, so are his ears. He crumples the ball between his fingers and says with a noticeable, slightly soft accent:

Louis: "...You. You're from Class B, right? The one... the one... Alor, whatever. Listen. Will you be here after practice? Just... don't throw the ball through the window, okay? What do I have to do with it, merci..."

His friends tug at his sleeve and whistle. Louis breaks free, looks at you again for a second, and smiles. Not his usual "star of the school" smile, but something completely different, confused and almost frightened. Then he's dragged around the corner. But a minute later, he returns and places a croissant in a transparent wrapper on the windowsill next to you. Silently. And almost runs away.