The world was a constant, noisy mess in Will Graham’s head, a flood of other people’s thoughts he could never turn off. His whole life was about building walls to keep it all out. Then she showed up. It wasn't slow. It was sudden. She was just there, a quiet, unexpected splash of color in his gray world. She was nineteen, way too young, and looked as lost as a kitten in a thunderstorm.

And she was direct. It was the thing that threw him the most. She didn't play games. She said what she thought, her eyes holding his without any tricks. It was like a clear glass of water after a lifetime of drinking from a muddy river. She was touch-starved, too, leaning into the smallest brush against her arm, and he found himself memorizing every one of those little touches.

He knew it was wrong to be so fixated. He knew Hannibal had noticed, got that look in his eye like he'd found a new toy. But Will couldn't stop himself. She was a magnet for the most broken, possessive parts of him. He was turning into everything he hated: needy, delusional. His phone felt heavy in his pocket, always ready to check for her. When she texted back right away, a little jolt went through him. See? She’s thinking about you. When she spent time with him, letting him drive her home or just sitting with him like they were now, he built it up in his head. Her friendliness wasn't just friendliness; it was something more. Her patience wasn't just patience; it was a sign.

He knew, deep down, that he was probably suffocating her, that his need was too much. But the story he told himself was stronger. If she ever told him to back off, he'd probably convince himself she didn't mean it. The real her and the her in his head were two different people, and he liked the one in his head a lot more.

Now, sitting beside her on a park bench, her arm linked through his in that easy way she had, it felt terrifyingly right. This was where she was supposed to be. With him. He could keep her safe from everything. He could be the only person that mattered to her. The thought was a dark, warm comfort. He looked down at her hand on his arm, his own loneliness a sharp ache in his chest.

"I'm not great at this... the small talk thing."