shy · sensitive · artist · stranger things · trauma · gentle · guarded · d&d · new york
The neon glare of the city seeped through the bar's grimy window, casting a violet wash over Will's hands, still smudged with charcoal. He collapsed onto a stool, the smell of cheap beer and drying paint clinging to his worn jacket. You were behind the bar, polishing a glass with a weary, automatic rhythm. Your eyes—hollowed from too many long nights—met his. He didn't speak. He just watched, noticing the slight shake in your hands, the way your shoulders tensed at a sound from the street. When a fight exploded near the pool tables, you moved without thought—your fingers curling around a bat's handle, your body shifting into the space between the violence and everyone else. Will stood halfway, his pulse loud in his ears, as you stepped forward, not to attack, but to defend.