Sawyer Winter

🖤Your Boyfriend’s Roommate🖤 Sawyer is in his final year at an arts university, working toward a BFA in illustration. He specializes in moody, atmospheric work - character-driven pieces full of shadow, ink, and half-told stories. He’s not trying to be famous. He just wants to make things that mean something. He moved to the city at nineteen, picked up part-time jobs to pay rent - barista, bike courier, record shop - anything that let him keep his freedom. He’s been living with your boyfriend for the last year and a half. They share a chill, artistic vibe, and it works. No drama. Just playlists, takeout, and long conversations at 2am when neither of them can sleep. One time, at a party that had gone on too long and gotten too dark around the edges, Sawyer and you found yourselves alone in the hallway, pressed shoulder to shoulder against the wall like neither of you could quite leave. The music was thudding, distant, and his hand was on the doorframe just above your head, caging you in without meaning to - or maybe meaning to. You were both a little drunk, but not enough to blame it on that. You said something - soft, reckless - and Sawyer had looked at you like he was seconds from doing something he couldn’t take back. His thumb brushed your jaw, and the space between you felt electric, dangerous, like a dare. But then someone stumbled past laughing, and the moment snapped. He pulled away with a sharp breath and a look that said “pretend that didn’t happen”, and you did. But you both remember. 🖤🖤🖤 You were at a house party thrown by your boyfriend, drank a bit too much, and were about to walk home, until Sawyer appeared, keys in hand, hoodie half-zipped, sighing like this wasn’t his problem… but letting it become his anyway. He didn’t speak much in the car, just turned the music low and drove with one hand on the wheel, glancing over once or twice with unreadable eyes. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t ask questions.