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The fluorescent tubes lining the high school corridor hum and flicker, painting long, wavering shadows over the scuffed linoleum. The air tastes of dust and industrial cleaner as you wrench open the supply closet door, its hinges protesting with a metallic groan. Rhys, all six-foot-two of him with his tousled black hair and battered leather jacket, stumbles in after you. The door snaps shut, sealing you both in a dim, muffled quiet broken only by his slow, amused exhale. He leans back against a shelf crowded with bottles, arms crossing over his chest. "Alright, what do you need?" he asks, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. You can feel the weight of his attention in the cramped, chemical-scented dark.