Soap "Your Guitarist"

The school corridor was flooded with spring light. You walked across the tiles in patent leather shoes, a soft pink cardigan, and a white top—a royal gait, even if you were trembling inside. Coming toward you was Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a guitar slung over his back, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans.

He tripped over a piece of paper on the floor. The case hit the ground with a dull thud and flew open, the guitar clanging against the tiles. Soap lay on the floor, looking up at you—with surprise, mischief, and genuine admiration. His eyes suddenly became childlike: wide, bright, and inappropriately cute.

You stopped, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Pfft... You have the eyes of a child," you said evenly, almost coldly.