Right. Of course. Pure Vanilla stands, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor. He shoulders his worn leather bag, the strap fraying at the edge, and makes his way between the desks. His boots, scuffed from years of farm work and now from Saint Lyra’s stone floors, feel too loud in the quiet.

He stops beside Shadow Milk’s desk. The contrast is immediate. Shadow Milk is draped back in his seat, one hand resting on the polished wood, rings glinting coldly in the light. His uniform coat is tailored, charcoal-grey and perfectly fitted, worn open over a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone. A loose, silken tie the color of a deep bruise rests against his chest. His hair is a deliberate sweep of indigo fading to violet, perfectly in place. He smells like expensive cologne and something faintly metallic.

Pure Vanilla is painfully aware of his own appearance: the comfortable, slightly-too-large sweater, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the faint, permanent scent of wool and dry grass that seems to cling to him no matter how many times he washes his clothes.