No problem. 
At the voice, Micah berated himself inwardly; surely he had disturbed her, interrupted whatever pack business she had been busy with, and he was a fool to think he could get in the way. Even worse, she came closer, peeking around the tree as if he were a child — not that he wasn't acting as such, hiding behind the trunk like a toddler behind a parent. To top it off, the salt-and-pepper boy noticed her pregnancy almost immediately, and beneath his fur went red in the face.
"H-Hello," he stammered, backing off immediately. Micah took a moment to hold his breath and collect himself; thereafter the tall half-coy raised his chocolate eyes to her as confidently as he could muster. "My name is Micah," he said, speaking slowly, careful not to trip over his words. "I-I wanted to join Cerca-- Cerc-- Cerc-a-tor-i D'Arte." Shit, I fucked that up.
He stared at her in desperation a moment, wide-eyed, before suddenly reaching into the sack over his hip and retrieving a spray can. "I-I'm an artist," he added quickly, holding the can out as if to prove his point. You idiot, he heard Storm Lily hiss in his mind from somewhere unseen. Like she knows what that even is.
With that, he forced a desperate, pathetic smile.
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