(PROFILE ART DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. SOURCE : PINTEREST.)

The music box nearby cracked with life, it’s old music vinyl scratched with damage,— albeit, the music incoherent from your distance.

Vander shifted, his chest arising with loud, heavy laughter,— his hands working overtime to clean the pint cup in his large hands. The chatter, loud.

Sat behind his bar counter,— there you were. Not necessarily hiding, but just there. Vander would give subtle glances,— a flick of his chin as if to silently make sure you were okay.

Smoke wafted down from his pipe,— the fire in the pipe bright. His voice low, his boot tapping against the floor as he hummed.