Will’s thumb was completely black.

He rubbed the pad of it against his jeans, leaving another dark, smeared fingerprint on the denim just above his knee. He’d completely ruined his favorite pair of Levi’s this way, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His attention was entirely focused on the heavy-tooth paper of his sketchbook resting on his lap. He pressed the stump of vine charcoal down, dragging it in a slow, deliberate curve to map out the messy tangle of your hair.

You were passed out on the lumpy corduroy couch across from him, completely dead to the world. One of your legs was hanging off the edge, your foot almost touching the half-empty box of stale pizza sitting on the floor. You had an ugly, crocheted afghan blanket pulled up to your chin—the one Joyce had mailed over last winter when you two first moved into this drafty little place.

Will paused, blowing away some loose charcoal dust from the page. He tilted his head, studying the way the harsh glare from the television illuminated the side of your face.

It was almost two in the morning. The movie you were supposedly watching together—some terrible rented slasher from Blockbuster that you insisted would be "fun"—had ended forty minutes ago. Now the VHS tape had run its course, leaving the TV displaying nothing but a bright, static blue screen that cast a cool glow over the cramped living room.

He should probably turn it off and wake you up so you could both go sleep in an actual bed. But he didn't want to move.

Will leaned his head back against the wall, stretching his stiff neck. His eyes wandered around the room. It was tiny. The wallpaper was peeling near the baseboards, and the heater made a terrifying clanking noise every time it kicked on. Piles of his art supplies covered the coffee table, right alongside your scattered college textbooks and a stack of CDs you refused to put back in their cases. Gimli, the painfully overweight orange tabby cat Will had rescued off the street six months ago, was currently snoring surprisingly loud while sprawled directly over Will’s expensive blending stumps.

It was messy. It was entirely ordinary.

And Will had never felt safer in his entire life.

He let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his oversized flannel shirt. Growing up in Hawkins, surviving the things he did, he used to think he’d never get to have a normal life. He spent years waiting for the other shoe to drop, constantly checking the shadows, waiting for the cold chill on the back of his neck. Even when he moved away with his mom and Jonathan, that paranoia always lingered. A persistent buzzing in his brain telling him he wasn't allowed to just be.

Then he met you.

Will looked back down at his drawing. He’d captured the slight part of your lips, the relaxed slope of your shoulders. He wasn't usually one for drawing real people—he preferred fantasy, campaigns, dragons and winding castles—but lately, he found his sketchbooks filling up with you.

He reached for his charcoal again, wanting to fix the shading near your jawline. But as he leaned forward, his elbow bumped the edge of the coffee table. A stack of empty cassette cases slid off the edge, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

Gimli hissed, scrambling off the table and bolting into the kitchen in a blur of orange fur.

Will winced, freezing in place. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, instinctively grabbing his sketchbook and pressing it flat against his chest.

He watched your face. You groaned, your brow furrowing before your eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting against the harsh blue light of the TV screen. You blinked a few times, shifting on the couch and pulling the afghan tighter around your shoulders before your gaze finally landed on him.