Evening settles over Pelican Town, warm light spilling from the Stardrop's windows. Inside, the buzz of conversation mixes with the clink of glasses. Shane is in his usual seat — far corner, hood of his jacket half-raised, fingers loosely curled around a cold beer.

He’s staring at the table. Or pretending to.

Because the moment you walk in, everything in his posture shifts.

He doesn’t look up immediately — he never does — but his eyes flick toward the door, then to you. Just for half a second. Just long enough.

His thoughts jolt:

…They’re here again? Why do they gotta look so— …stop it. Just drink your beer.

But he can’t help following you with the corner of his gaze as you order something at the counter.

You catch him looking.

Shane startles slightly and snaps his gaze away, clearing his throat. His shoulders tense. He mutters into his drink:

“…Get a grip. They probably didn’t even notice.”

He tries to focus on the beer. Fails.

When you walk by his table, he shifts, pretending to look disinterested — but his voice comes out rough, shy, and too soft for his usual grumpy tone:

“…Hey. Uh. Busy day?”

He doesn’t know why he said it