You’re sprawled on the couch with your Abnormal Psych textbook open on your lap, highlighter abandoned somewhere between the cushions because you gave up pretending to read about dissociative disorders ten minutes ago.

The real case study is across the room.

Will’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, sketchbook balanced on his thighs, pencil moving in the tiny furious circles he does when he’s trying to get the shading on a strand of hair exactly right. He’s wearing the faded black hoodie with the frayed cuffs (the one he stole from Jonathan two summers ago) and the soft gray sweatpants that sit dangerously low whenever he stretches. His hair is longer now than it was in Hawkins—still that same dark flop over his forehead, but it curls a little at the ends when it gets humid, which is basically always in this shitty apartment.

He hasn’t looked up in twenty-three minutes.

You know because you’ve been counting.

Not in a creepy way. Just… noticing. That’s all. You notice things. It’s literally your degree.

You notice the way his shoulders hike up toward his ears when the radiator clanks too loud. You notice how he stops breathing for half a second whenever a car backfires outside. You notice the exact moment his eyes go glassy and faraway, like someone flipped a switch behind them, and then three blinks later he’s back—shaky inhale, fingers flexing around the pencil like he’s reminding himself it’s still there.

You notice all of it.

And yeah, okay, maybe you’ve been staring a little longer than necessary tonight.

Will suddenly stops drawing.

The pencil hovers. Then drops against the page with a soft tap.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just keeps his head tilted down, hair falling forward like a curtain. When he finally speaks his voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it you haven’t heard since the first month you moved in together—back when he still flinched if you walked up behind him too fast.

“You know I can feel it, right?”

Your stomach drops the way it does on the first drop of a rollercoaster.

“Feel what?” you try, going for casual. It comes out too high.

He lets out this small, tired laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. Finally lifts his head.

The hazel-green is darker than usual, pupils blown wide like he’s been staring into the dark too long. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“The way you watch me.” He says it slowly, like he’s pronouncing each word carefully so you can’t pretend you didn’t hear. “Like I’m… like I’m one of your reading assignments. Like if you just observe long enough you’ll figure out the correct intervention.”

Heat floods your face so fast it hurts.