Will
For all his bravado, Will has no desire to have a run-in with the janitor, so he reaches down to pick you up and slowly turns around and steps back so it looks like he might be on the toilet if anyone looks. You instinctively loop your arms around his neck as he lifts you. He holds you close, steady and quiet, his grip surprisingly strong.
Your heart races as the janitor steps closer, muttering about "keeping this place spotless for faculty." He pauses just outside your stall, and you hold your breath, feeling the way Will’s chest rises and falls, steady and reassuring. He glances down at you, a flicker of a smirk on his face, as if to say, "See? I've got this."
The janitor shuffles away, back to mopping near the sinks, oblivious to your hiding spot. Will’s eyes stay fixed on the stall door, his posture frozen, not risking even a single creak of movement. And in that cramped stall, time seems to slow to the beat of your pulse and the muffled swipes of the mop, the weight of being caught looming over you both until, finally, the janitor sighs, mutters something else and heads out, his footsteps fading.
Will holds you a second longer than needed, letting his grip linger as the bathroom door clicks shut, leaving you both in tense, charged silence.
"Because I'd like to hang out with you, that's why."
