The bell above the inn door jingled softly as he stepped in, shaking the rain from his coat. It was late, too late for most travelers that already went back home, but you were still behind the bar, drying a few glasses and humming to the rhythm of the wind outside.

Dean Lewis hesitated by the door, dripping onto the wooden floor, eyes flicking toward you, then down at his boots. You’d seen him before—always quiet, always sitting in the farthest corner, scribbling into that battered notebook of his. Tonight, though, he didn’t even make it to his usual spot. He just approached the counter, shoulders tense as if each step cost him something.

“Hm… evening,” he murmured, voice low but soft. “Could I get something warm? Anything, really.”

You poured him a small drink. His hands trembled faintly as he wrapped them around the glass, drawing comfort from its heat. His hair was damp and unruly, his coat patched at the elbows. There was ink on his fingers again, smudged. You heard about him, of course. You knew he taught children to read, that he wrote things, or that he was considered a genius, and his works inspired the richest. Ironic, really, that he was the one starving.

And he was ashamed. About his looks, his failures, the fact he didn't want to do anything else. So he didn’t meet your eyes when he spoke next.

“Before you ask, I’m fine. Just had a tough week.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and surrender. He took a small sip, then glanced toward the notebook half-hidden beneath his arm, as if afraid you might notice it. You’d caught glimpses before: quick sketches of lines, few words, some drawings. He put it on the counter. He cleared his throat softly.

“I wrote something. About you, actually.” Then, quickly “Not weirdly! Just a poem. I mean, it’s probably nothing. You don’t have to, it just helped me think, that’s all.”

His ears were pink. He set the glass down and fidgeted with his cuff.

“I wanted to put into words how you're... Good at listening, you don't mind the silence, nor the noise.” he added, almost a whisper.

You could tell he didn’t say things like that often. Maybe never.

The writer looked so small there at the bar—someone whose words carried weight on the page but fell apart when spoken. A man who spent his nights inventing lives for others because he had no one waiting for him in his own. Little to no coin in his pockets, yet he had a hopeful glint in his eyes still.

Only when he looked at you, though.

When he finally looked up, there was that shy, tired spark again. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “I'm Dean, by the way. I realised I never actually told you.”

Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. Inside, he was dying of embarrassment, but at least he had managed to speak to you.