favorite color :: in general green, but to wear light blue.
currently watching :: last film was uptown girls, the last episode of the pitt and baran al-hashimi edits.
currently reading :: your needs, my needs and terms and conditions, and fleabag scripture.
current obsession :: ladybugs it’s an hyper fixation at this point, shawn hatosy, my kobo (like i’m a different person when i’m with her, yes it’s a her), tomodachi life, sepideh moafi.
last google search :: how to see your mutuals on tumblr, i feel so dumb and like a boomer 😭😭😭
currently working on :: a smau for baran x reader, and some random headcanon about the pitt and pope cody.
No pressure tags :: @annaevermore @deansdeer @abbotitts @darling-flora
hey so I’m doing my first ever undertale play through and why did the flower just kill my dad???? wtf am I supposed to do now???? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW??? I’m about to have a nightmare over this and that cracked out biblical angel eyeball insect I’m gonna barf
hi cuties i'm itching to write for clark kent / bruce wayne / richard grayson in a comic coded sort of way (i have never read a dc comic) ((i like how they look)) (((i want to read them tbh))) please send a little messenger pigeon to my mind palace if you have any ideas thank yew
BASICALLY its like childhood bsf anc roman right, the bsf is from like a diff background than roman and they both rly liked n understand eachother cus tho diff THEY SUFFER THE SAME FUCKING WAY(trauma-wise) and they sneak out late at night to see eachother and do things(wtv they may be) but HE NEVER tells any of his siblings or family abt her. (for wtv reason)
hey boo thang. kiss for u for sticking it out. this is genuinely so late i feel so bad. im so so so sorry T-T
erm so maybe they don't ever sneak out to see each other but i tried to encapsulate what you have ! i really hope this isn't really totally horrible. please lmk what you think ! eek im getting so close to getting out of school so hopefully i can take more reqs .... this is also such a new thing for me i haven't done an angst piece before
content: mentions of child abuse / trauma (but no description), angst angst angst, no happy ending. spans over your childhood + highschool relationship with him. 5.1k words
if there are any weird grammar/voice mistakes no there’re not. i tried something kind of different with this so i hope it worked?? if this sucks im sorry aaaaaaaaaa k bye for now thank you anon for your love and patience !!!!!!!!!!!!!
divider by @ suupersonic <3
You’re normal. I’m normal. It’ll become true if you say it to yourself enough.
When you were six, you believed it. You knew nothing else, how couldn’t you believe it? You were just a little kid, playing on playgrounds, walking on eggshells at home; not that you knew what that was at the time. It’s all about perspective, you learn much, much later.
Your favorite thing to do on the playground – on any playground, really – was run your own grocery shop in whatever nook you could find under the slide structures. On the day you met Roman, you were even happier than you usually were commanding your empire of mulch. That particular day, it was an empire of mulch and puffy dandelions; you thought the weed was gorgeous and you used it to decorate your store. You also sold them as a delicacy for an upcharge of mulch.
Looking back, you think you got as angry as you did because you’d started in such a good place. You weren’t at home, nobody was yelling or being loud, and you had these pretty “flowers” to play with. How dare that group of weasley, smelly boys pop your bubble of peace.
When the fighting first broke out, you were negotiating a banana bread sale. It wasn’t only you that the screeching bothered, but the rest of the kids you’d taken on to run your shop, and the girl with a fistful of mulch trying to get her dandelion. You’d peeped around the pole obscuring your vision to try and see, feeling some of the others follow. You remember it best as a pile-up of boys. They weren’t at each others’ throats, no, but united. Against who, you couldn’t tell, and the peanut gallery wasn’t able to watch much longer past the even louder shouting of some grown-ups.
All the onlookers were quickly shooed away, including you. You don’t know what to call what drew you straight back, but when you did return when the commotion had dissipated, you found a scrawny little boy sitting all by himself. That invisible magnet, invisible string, whatever it could’ve been, tugged. Your little feet carried you right up to him, close enough so that the puffiness of his eyes and the faint tear tracks slashed across his cheeks were abundantly apparent.
You had no clue what happened; no clue whether this meek boy even had anything to do with it. He was sitting on the squishy ground, his back up against the sleek fence, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was very skinny, yet short. You had some inches on him then.
“Are you okay?” you’d asked him. He didn’t respond. You actually don’t think he’d ever told you what happened that day. You’d just stared at each other for some time until you stooped over, took his hand in yours, and helped him up. “Let’s go slide. Sliding makes me happy.”
When you were at the playground, your parents were doing whatever work they could on their laptops or phones at a nearby picnic table. They’d let you tire yourself out then come to them to take you home. When you told your new friend that at the bottom of the double slide at his quiet murmur of “I’m hungry,”, he only seemed confused. He never had a grown-up stay with him at the playground. His nanny– “You have a goat?” you’d asked him –would drop him off and pick him up.
You’d hopped your way over to where your father was sitting, your new friend following. You’d rooted around in the stuff your father had brought on your excursion, finding a pack of cheesy crackers. Triumphantly, you’d handed them over.
“And who’s this?” your father had asked. You’d realized then you’d never gotten your friend’s name. That’s not being a good friend, is it? Rather than asking him, you stared at him in what you hoped was an encouraging manner.
“My, my name is Roman,” he managed, meeting your intense 6-year-old gaze.
“His name is Roman, and he’s my friend,” you announced to your father. “But he doesn’t have any grown-ups at the playground so maybe he can come for a playdate at our house so that he has grown-ups.”
You remember the blank look your father had given you fondly, despite the relationship you ended up having. You suppose you did suggest kidnapping a small child from a playground… No matter your well intentions, your father had politely told you that you’d have to wait for his nanny, then go from there. Go from there you did.
Roman would eventually tell you that the only reason he was able to come over so often was because his father was grateful to have found a place to dump him for hours at a time without having to worry.
You felt normal with Roman. Everywhere else, especially as you progressed through school and learned more about what was actually considered “normal”, felt off. You didn’t have to try and explain to him that you didn’t feel happy around your parents; he just knew. You didn’t have to try and find the words, trying to look away and force the tears back into your eyeballs. When you talked to other kids at school, you felt staticky in your chest. The world around you was murky, foggy. It was like you couldn’t walk freely at school or at home because someone from long ago, someone bitter and spiteful, buried hundreds of thousands of mines in the ground for you, specifically you, to step on and watch your limbs bleed out.
When you were with him, you were clingy, but you were serene. You were serene for the most part, anyways. Maybe you should find a career in tarot or in fortunetelling; no matter how at home you felt with him, how you could see the world around you with newfound clarity, extending grace, and found the minutia that built beauty only while with him, you always felt as though someone was watching from a distance. Always looking over your shoulder, listening in, about to seize you from him and keep you away forever. It was something you talked to him about, one of the many you could stutter and brokenly make your way through for him to nod then mirror you perfectly.
You feel as though your time with Roman was split into seasons. Purity, taking after the spring: the birth of your relationship, the innocence of its foundations. Transcendence, as the summer: bright, vivid, intensely permeated, with smells and colors and feelings you had no idea were real. All of it new, all of it at once, all of it incredibly saturated. Incredibly too short. Obscurity, the autumn: more aptly named the fall, where you cannot comprehend that you are so surrounded by death because it is all just so beautiful. The end, bluntly, the winter: perhaps there is still beauty, but you will have to learn to find it. The only thing you knew to be beautiful is now gone. You must find a new way to love.
Would things have ended differently if you’d just had more time?
Purity
You went into the first grade with your best friend being the scared little boy you’d met on the playground and saw almost every day. The boy who just had to go to a different school. It was the first grade when all the other kids began forming their own groups. Surely, it wasn’t malicious, but they gravitated away from you and to each other anyway.
“Do you have lots of friends? I don’t really, but it’s okay, because I like you a lot.” he’d asked you one afternoon, doodling on the etch-a-sketch clutched in his hands. It was his favorite toy to play with at your house. He didn’t have one at home– or any toys, not that you could gather from going to his house.
You’d shrugged. “You’re my favorite friend.” He’d straightened, like a sunflower twisting to stay in the sun, smiling to himself. You went back to your Beanie Babies.
Roman’s home, though you’re not sure you can ever really qualify it as home for him, was so extravagant and large and toyless that you both became quite good at improvising. You would nab forks from the kitchen and pretend they were magic wands, or maybe fold paper planes in the safety of his room.
Your favorite game was dollies. The kids at school thought that boys playing dollies was prissy, but you and Roman didn’t care. You had your own personal realm outside of the real world; so far away that you didn’t have to think about it. You’d use dolls, stuffed animals, action figures, whatever you and he could find or already had. Perhaps some of your pretend play was unreasonably unhinged (one time, you’d spent two hours playing house where the father Ken had just come out of prison and the mother Barbie had a secret baby and the Beanie Babies were the pack of wolves she’d bonded with to protect her from him and his high breathalyzer number. Roman had learned it from Conner by means of eavesdropping), but a world of your own making was a world where you were in control. Nothing could hurt you or Roman, not if you had anything to say about it.
In your made up worlds, you were exactly who you wanted to be. You were a grown-up, with an important job, who didn’t need any other grown-ups but your Roman. Roman himself, in your worlds, he was always important. You never really understood why he had to specify that he was an important man. You thought you made it obvious to him that he was your favorite, so obviously that meant he was important to you. He was the boss of the big company, he was successful, and he always did everything right.
The two of you really weren’t any different than two twin comets, strayed from the storm, orbiting each other in a far-off vacuum. Your lives swirled together so delicately, privy to no wonders nor horrors alike in the rest of the ever-extending universe.
“I have another bruise,” he’d tell you sometimes. Or scar, or scratch, or scab. You’d give it a gentle pat and slap on a Peppa Pig Band-Aid from the box you’d hid under your bed. You’d done that once in front of other children, albeit (to your dismay) with a plain Band-Aid from the classroom.
“But I didn’t see you fall,” one of them had insisted. “What happened?”
“No, it was from home.”
“You fell at home?”
“No..?”
A Roman tribunal, that group.
“Your parents don’t hit you?” he’d asked meekly. The group quickly dissipated after that, but you stayed. You’re normal, the two of you. Normal.
Regardless, you went everywhere together. You shared your school lunches, your snacks, your meals. You drank from the same cups and bottles, held hands crossing the street, gave each other regular hugs. Even now, you think that what you and Roman had at the very beginning is purely a perfect friendship.
Transcendence
In the seventh grade, you recognized Roman for all the boy bits (as Nanny put it) that he was, the man he was beginning to grow into. You would sit knee to knee– the same way you’d always sat, it was nothing new, really –and once your skin touched his, thoughts of that moment, alongside grander, scarier thoughts of him plagued you. The witch’s cauldron that spat out your emotions, your feelings, began bubbling, frothing over the sides ever so slowly. Whatever it was stewing in there, it was flashing different colors, beautifully harsh.
Nothing was different from the way they always were. You went everywhere together. You shared your school lunches, your snacks, your meals. You drank from the same cups and bottles, held hands crossing the street, gave each other regular hugs. Yet now, you’d find your face scrunching up and your stomach souring when he started slicking his lovely, thick hair back. You’d feel fluttery when he’d touch you, chasing whatever fleeting contact you had. All of those things he’d do, those little quirks and bits that were as remarkable as a spoon in the kitchen, drew you to him.
Really, the more you think about it, the more perfect planets and comets are in describing the two of you. In this season of your life, your orbit around each other was anchored in far more gravity. He’s the star in your solar system, but once upon a time, he’d die on the hill that the roles were reversed.
Neither of you had thought of romance or dates until you witnessed the petty relationships between a gaggle of middle schoolers. You thought that it was silly, that it wasn’t real love what the other kids were doing. That anybody who claimed they found true love in the seventh grade was simply dumb. You ate your words, only a little bit, in the end.
You think that what made it so special wasn’t any grandeur, but rather that it happened so naturally. You slipped from friends to lovers without ever having to say anything. He, all of a sudden, became much gentler with you. Not that he was ever rough, no. Before, he’d just do things. Toss you balled up socks if you needed them, bump you lightly when you’re walking around (he can’t walk in a straight line for the life of him. Beige flag, you’d decided long ago). Shortly before your first “kiss”, he made a point to hand everything to you, make sure it was safely placed into your palms. He still zigzagged wildly, but he always made sure that you walked on the inside of the sidewalk while he was closer to the road. He was always a starer, but something in his eyes changed. They were no longer unfocused, nor dull (not that you thought his eyes were dull-looking). They were sparkly, bright. When he looked at you, his pupils dilated. You thought he was looking at something he treasured.
One evening, in the privacy of his room, Roman had pitched forward with his eyes squeezed shut and bonked you in the face with a tiny kiss. You felt embarrassed on his behalf, but it felt right. Endearment tipped the scale in his favor.
Whatever embarrassment you felt then, anyway, was quickly washed away and even far overshadowed by Roman’s own. You thought it was fear back then. Your romantic relationship was hidden from everyone in his family, which you thought you understood. He didn’t want the meddling, the criticism. You thought he didn’t want them to push you away from him; to take you away from him. You were fine with it because his family knowing or not knowing didn’t affect the way you were with each other. It was helpful that his father was never home anyway, and on the rare occasion that he was, he never checked in on Roman. Not very closely, anyway.
Past your first clunky kiss, you began to get the hang of it, despite high school turning you both into rabid tumbleweeds of hormones. Again, it just felt right.
He walked you to class every single day, every single period. You ate lunch together in a shaded nook on the outside lawn, away from the rest of the world.
“I can’t imagine what this would be like without you,” he’d said one day, early into your romance. He was laid down in the grass by you, staring up into the pale sky.
“What do you mean?”
“I know people say that being high-school sweethearts doesn’t ever mean anything, but I really can’t imagine what this would be like without you,” he’d repeated. “You’re there. You’ve always been there.” He rolled over to face you. “You’re so…” He never found the word and instead made a face at you.
You rolled your eyes, smiling anyway. “I’m so gorgeous, fantastic. Things like that,” you supplied. “Perfect, even.”
“What I think of you is a feeling. I don’t have any words for it,” he said defensively. “I just feel it, and it makes me feel safe and really, really happy.”
“Hm.”
“I’m serious!” He finally sat up. “I don’t think that I’d be this happy if you weren’t in my life. We’re so… so connected.”
“That’s a little grim, Ro. I’m sure you’d find something.”
“How would I know? You’re all I know. And I’m fine with that.” You’d kept your gaze on him, idly twiddling your thumbs. “Never mind. Just take the compliment, okay? All I was trying to do was compliment you.”
That chased away the little tinges of confused unease that began dripping into your stomach. Roman was being silly, that was all. He leaned over and kissed you and you forgot all about it.
Being a child of wealth, especially one that was taken care of by a nanny, gifts were not uncommon. His gift giving didn’t loom over you in the love-bombing way you saw at school or on TV. If you complained about your bedsheets, or mentioned your love for a specific perfume, he’d bring whatever it is you had spoken about clutched gently in his hands. His nanny was very sweet; when you asked where he got the money from, he sheepishly told you about his allowance and how his nanny thought of you as one of her own.
You still spent all of your time together. Spoke, whether through text or in person, every single day. The years you spent together not caring about the implications of your kissing and touching have stayed with you, the sillage of an old, yet thoroughly loved perfume.
You were the other’s first for everything. All of it. After your first very awkward night in bed together, he’d told you you’d be his last. His only.
“I think the reason we’re so click,” he’d said, a weirdly endearing thing he said as explanation on why you had ended up together so attached at the hip, “is because of fate. The Fates.”
“I didn’t know you believed in them,” you’d replied. “See, you like school. History, Ancient Greece.”
He tried kicking you under the covers, earning a fit of laughter from you. “We were meant to be together, forever,” he continued, ignoring you. “My first and my last everything.”
“You’re not gonna die or anything, Ro. I’m not leaving, either.” Your brows furrowed as you stared at him. He flopped closer to you, pressing his side flush to yours.
“I mean I’m not gonna be with anyone else,” he said, his tone softening entirely. “Not like this.” He reached around you for a cuddle and set his cheek on your shoulder. “Never like this.”
Your tummy turned elatedly. Despite your incessant lip biting, you were beaming up at his ceiling. “So you promise we’ll stay together?”
“I promise.”
He’d leaned over for a quick, yet butterfly-inducing kiss to your lips. He tasted like Chapstick.
You always subconsciously understood that Roman’s father stood over, lorded over him, but he was never around, so you suppose you never truly, completely understood. You thought it was what bound you to him so definitely, your mutual distances from your fathers, your strangled, estranged relationships.
What set you apart was the hold Roman’s father had over his son: the iron fist stringing Roman up, guiding him like a wooden puppet. The same iron fist that squeezed Roman’s soul from him and crushed what you thought was the most beautiful relationship with its wrought palm.
All it took was Logan to need his son, not as a person, but as utility, for the most important thing in your life to collapse in pieces, splinters of the debris lashing out and damaging everything.
Obscurity
Late senior year, Roman stopped spending his after-schools with you. His dad was introducing him to the company, to his “options” after school. You felt quite bitter with him, to be honest. He had gotten into the only school he’d applied to– USC, a place you couldn’t even think about applying to –and you’re not even sure he had to apply formally in the first place.
Instead of walking together to his car so you could go home with him, the way you usually did every Tuesday evening, he held out a hand to you as you went to take a step forward. You must have shown your surprise on your face, given his wince. His pinchy eyebrows and his utter restlessness irked you. You felt something bad was coming, and even though you had no real evidence that was true, panic constricted your throat.
“We can’t, um, hang out today.”
You blinked stupidly at him. “Oh. Okay.” Not something bad, then. You were only overthinking.
“My dad’s home,” he supplied to you without your asking.
“Hahh, Roman, you scared me. What, does he not like me or something?” you’d given back, rather jokingly.
Roman looked away from you. Suddenly, you suppose, the brick facade of the school next to you was just oh-so-interesting. “Well,” he started slowly, “he doesn’t exactly know about you.”
“That we’re together?” Whatever panic you had before felt silly now. Something more solid, more like there was a fire being held under wherever it was your emotions manifested. His gaze swung down to the ground.
“Um, like at all. And I’d rather keep it that way.” He’d clasped his hands together. “He’s, y’know, intense.” You did know. You knew better than anyone; you were the one kissing away his tears or soothing him outside in the grass.
The smoke traveled up your body and heated your cheeks despite your understanding. “Oh,” you repeated. “Okay.” You’d fished around in your bag for your phone. You needed a ride, now. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He turned towards his car without ever looking at you. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
“Love you,” you called after him. He didn’t look back. You didn’t hang out that tomorrow, or the day after that. It was either his dad, his sister, one of his brothers. It was never such an issue before, but you can’t put your finger on what’s changed.
He was walking with you to your first period, early in the morning. You remember because he was practically asleep while standing. And, it was your first real fight. Sure, you’d squabbled over where to get takeout or his clothing never finding its way to the hamper. When you had those conversations, you never felt angry. Maybe a little miffed, but never truly angry, nor put off at him. The core of those situations were always silly: a differing in craving or a shirt sitting on the floor (his clothing never got dirty dirty. He wore a singular article of clothing maybe twice at most. Literally the only thing he was disciplined with).
“Have you committed anywhere yet?” Roman had asked you, quite offhandedly. It had soured your mood: one, if you did, you would’ve done it with him next to you; two, he fully knows of, has fully seen your struggle with college applications and comparison. “I sent the e-mail to my counselor the other day.”
“So you’re going to USC?” you asked, uneasy. “That’s that?”
He shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
“But you said you hated business.” You made a face at him, and you thought it was erring on angry. “And you said you were gonna stay close. Los Angeles is not close.” Even though you’d stopped in the middle of the hallway, he’d kept going. A heavy, dark smog of frustration hung over you, and you could feel it settling around your head and chest.
“What would be the point in staying? My dad-”
“There’s no point in staying?” you interrupted. You’d only barely caught up to him in the hall. “Your dad? Since when are you on speaking terms with your dad?”
This was the first you’d ever heard of it. Before that moment, he was joining you at the local community college to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. You hadn’t talked about it, but maybe a couple years in you’d find a place together. You’d build a home, a quiet, loving household, the one neither of you ever had; you’d build the life the both of you always dreamt of, pursuing the mystifying wisps of life calling you, whatever those are.
He’d shrugged. You doubt he was going to say anything, but you didn’t stick around long enough to find out. You stepped into class without saying goodbye.
You suppose you felt your relationship fraying, even then, like a prehistorically old pair of pajama pants ripped at the knee.
He became more distant as the weeks passed. Certainly not physically– he was still your shadow, you his, for the most part. During school, anyway. He was distant in the way that made you think his body was an empty vessel, that his soul, whatever a soul was, was somewhere else. It was somewhere far off. Much farther off.
Even though that conversation in the hall had soured your mood, you were still head over heels for Roman. He was your person, for he knew all of you, and accepted you entirely. Wholly. Even after that conversation in the hall, even after it had soured your mood, you thought that his acceptance meant love, devotion, and that they would extend for eternity. How foolish, you now think.
Instead of his usual animatedness, excitement, even dorkiness, it was like you were talking to a wall. He was slipping away from you, and quickly. You’d originally thought he was stressed by his father’s increasing stress, and that was all. It would resolve once his father drifted back to his work, his corporation, away from Roman. Obviously, Roman would stay with you. That was what’s right.
After much needling and prodding from you, you’d finally gotten him to spend some time with you outside of school. You’d brought a nice blanket and a plethora of snack bits to enjoy. Fruits, crackers, cheese cubes. You felt like you were spoiling yourself, happily so. You and he were sat on the blanket in a quiet, grassy area, enjoying the fresh air.
“I really hope we can hit the beach this summer. Do you think Nanny would take us?” you’d mused aloud, looping the fabric of your shirt over and back over your finger. Over, back over. Over, back over. You happily continued your yammering, relishing the chirping of the birds flitting between the tree branches. “What should we do, before you go?”
You’d looked over at him then. He had been lying on his back, cloud-watching, before. Then, he was rolled on his side, facing away from you. He had fallen asleep.
That’s when you knew.
The End
You never ended up doing anything that summer. You didn’t see him once after school let out. He stopped texting, stopped calling. It was like you were simply an old penny to him, one minted many years ago, and you’d suddenly slipped out of his wallet to meet your fate in a sewer. Yes, you were useful, even special to him at some point, but he never noticed nor particularly cared when he left you behind.
Even though you’d rescinded into yourself like a turtle into its shell, you weren’t a hermit. You scrolled through the news apps, watched TV. Even though you hadn’t seen him in years, you couldn’t escape his face. Logan Roy, alongside son Roman Roy. Logan Roy brings son Roman Roy into the Waystar fold. Big things on the horizon for Roman Roy, with coming involvement in father Logan Roy’s empire. It disgusted you, to a small extent. All of those hours you had spent, listening to what he’d gone through at the hands of his father. Was all of that for nothing? Had you wasted all your time? Or are you jealous, as that vitriolic part of you loves to say?
You hadn’t said goodbye. He hadn’t, either. The beautiful reds and oranges of the autumn bled out in nature overnight, leaving nothing but the barren winter landscape. You couldn’t do anything but get on with your life.
When it was particularly bad, you had dreams of the life you thought you were going to have together. Together. Married, eventually. It’s been so long that you’re not really sure it was real. The Roman in your dreams, in your memories, is such a far cry from the one that you see on TV with his family; an especially far cry of the one that had recently reached out to you and met with you in person.
You’re still not sure how he got your number, but you don’t particularly care. You hadn’t responded to him, so it’s not like he knew it was you. You do care that he showed up at your front door, standing awkwardly on your welcome mat.
If you’re honest with yourself, he hasn’t changed at all. He looks the exact same, just taller and more tired-looking. You didn’t look through the peephole, like a dummy, when the doorbell rang that day. You’d ordered pho and had a long-suffering stuffy nose.
When you saw him, you felt your face twist into something of disgust. You’d nearly shut the door in his face, but he’d started talking as soon as he’d seen you.
“I was in town,” He was practically strangling the end of his scarf with his hands. The bitter chill bit at you through the crack of your door. “Thought I’d come see you.”
You met his eyes. “A little late, no?”
He, on the other hand, immediately broke away, looking everywhere but at you. “It’s been a while.”
You’d scoffed. “Okay. Nice seeing you.” Your hand twitched, itching to slam the door shut. Something deep inside of you, perhaps the one that littered lit matches onto the gasoline triggering your dreams of him, delicately restrained you. Maybe this was it. Finally, closure. You kept your mouth shut, letting the silence stretch. You stood there, staring at him, and you were a teenager all over again. Scrabbling at straws. Willing him to say something, anything (rather, anything you so desperately wanted to hear). But there was nothing. You looked and looked, but he said nothing. It’s like he wasn’t there at all. A body without a soul. You doubt you can convince yourself that he even wanted to say anything.
You shut the door. You took a long, hot shower.
By the time your pho arrived, the delivery driver was the only person at your door.
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