be who you are, love who you are,
don't forget who you are
☆I am a fangirl til the day I die☆ the names riah 👋🏽✌🏽
this blog is a little bit of everything b/c i am a little bit of everything ☆ ☆ ☆
Quinta Brunson and Hannah Einbinder's reaction to Keke Palmer bringing up the infamous 2 Girls, 1 Cup video during the Comedy Actress Roundtable for The Hollywood Reporter (May 2026)
You get a 'b' tattooed just over your rib cage and surprise your boyfriend Boone with it (think Zendaya's 't' tattoo)
I'm back on my Boone bullshit
The first thing Boone notices is that you’re acting suspicious as hell.
Not bad suspicious. Not cheating suspicious. Not something’s wrong suspicious.
More like you’re trying not to smile every time he looks at you.
Which, honestly, is worse.
Because Boone knows you.
He knows the exact twitch at the corner of your mouth when you’re hiding a joke. Knows the way your eyes get brighter when you’ve planned something. Knows the tiny shift in your posture when you’re waiting for him to figure something out on his own.
And right now?
You are absolutely unbearable.
“You gonna tell me why you’ve been grinnin’ at me all day,” Boone says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, “or am I supposed to solve the mystery myself?”
You hum innocently from where you’re cutting strawberries at the island. “Mystery?”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You kissed me six times while I was makin’ coffee this morning.”
“That’s normal.”
“You called me handsome before noon.”
“That’s also normal.”
“You slapped my ass in Home Depot.”
You point the knife at him. “That was normal.”
Boone snorts a laugh.
God, he loves you.
He loves this—your shared kitchen, your socks mixed together in the laundry, the half-finished grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like Oklahoma. Loves the way your life together stopped feeling temporary years ago.
Nobody actually says “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” anymore when they talk about the two of you. Not your friends. Not Boone’s family. Not Tyler’s crew.
Because after seven years together, two apartments, one shared house, three emergency room visits, countless storms, and a dog you accidentally adopted after finding him wandering near a gas station in Kansas—
You’re basically married already.
Even if there isn’t a ring yet.
Boone’s been saving for one.
Quietly.
Patiently.
He wants it right.
“You’re starin’ again,” you tease softly.
Boone blinks.
“Sorry.” He grins lazily. “Distracted by how pretty my girl is.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks pink anyway.
Still.
After all this time, he can still make you blush.
That’s his favorite thing in the world.
By evening, Boone is convinced you’re planning something.
Especially because you disappear into the bedroom after dinner and tell him not to come in.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That ain’t a reason.”
“It is today.”
“Baby—”
“Boone.”
Your warning tone makes him laugh from the couch.
“Alright, alright.”
He hears drawers opening. Closet doors sliding. Your footsteps moving around.
Then silence.
Too much silence.
“…You alive in there?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You murderin’ somebody?”
The bedroom door opens just enough for you to glare at him.
“Be patient.”
Then it shuts again.
Boone grins to himself.
Cute.
Weird.
But cute.
He stretches out across the couch, one arm behind his head, dog asleep against his leg. The TV plays some old movie he’s not really watching.
Mostly he’s listening for you.
Waiting.
Thinking about how lucky he got.
Because you came into his life like rain after drought.
Back when he was all restlessness and reckless energy and unfinished plans. Back before he learned what staying felt like.
You stayed.
Even during the hard years.
Even when storm chasing got dangerous.
Even when Boone got hurt.
Even when he got scared.
Especially then.
You never made him feel like he had to become softer to deserve love.
You just loved him anyway.
The bedroom door finally opens.
Boone looks up automatically—and forgets how to breathe for a second.
Jesus Christ.
You’re wearing one of his favorite outfits on you: tiny sleep shorts and one of his old shirts hanging off one shoulder.
Comfortable.
Pretty.
Home.
But there’s something else too.
That same hidden smile.
That same anticipation sparkling in your eyes.
“You gonna come here or what?” you ask casually.
Boone narrows his eyes immediately.
“See, now I know somethin’s up.”
You laugh.
“Just come here.”
He stands, crossing the room slowly while watching you carefully.
“You’re weird tonight.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Liar.”
“Massive liar.”
You reach for him the second he’s close enough, hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and tugging him nearer until his chest bumps yours.
Boone’s hands settle automatically on your waist.
Easy.
Natural.
Instinct.
His thumbs rub absent circles against your skin beneath the shirt.
“What’d you do?” he murmurs.
Your smile turns nervous suddenly.
Not playful anymore.
Soft.
Real.
And Boone straightens a little at that.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “What is it?”
You bite your lip.
Then, without speaking, you turn slightly and lift the hem of the oversized shirt just enough to expose the side of your ribs.
Boone’s gaze drops automatically.
And stops.
Everything in him stops.
Just over your rib cage, delicate and dark against your skin, sits a tiny cursive letter.
b.
Boone stares at it.
Actually stares.
Like his brain needs extra time catching up.
Your voice comes small suddenly.
“I wanted somethin’ permanent.”
His throat works once.
Then again.
“…Baby.”
You look shy now, which almost never happens anymore after this many years together.
“I know it’s kinda silly—”
“Silly?”
Your eyes flick back up to his.
Boone reaches toward you slowly, fingertips brushing featherlight against the tattoo.
Like he’s afraid it might disappear.
It’s tiny.
Elegant.
Intimate.
Placed somewhere nobody sees unless you choose to show them.
His initial.
On your skin.
Forever.
Something inside Boone caves in completely.
“You did this for me?” he asks quietly.
“Well, yeah.”
Your laugh is nervous now.
“I mean—you’re my Boone.”
Jesus Christ.
He looks wrecked instantly.
You see it happen in real time.
His eyes go glossy.
Not full crying.
But close enough that your expression softens immediately.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Are you emotional?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Ain’t.”
“You literally look like you’re about to propose.”
Boone lets out one disbelieving laugh and drags a hand down his face.
“You can’t just spring somethin’ like this on me.”
You grin a little. “I absolutely can.”
He looks back at the tattoo again.
Then at you.
Then back again.
Like he can’t stop.
“Come here,” he mutters suddenly.
You barely get a breath before he’s pulling you flush against him, one arm tight around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head.
Then he kisses you.
Hard.
Not rushed.
Not messy.
Just full.
Overflowing.
Every ounce of love he has pours into it.
You melt against him instantly, laughing softly into the kiss when he backs you into the kitchen counter.
“Boone—”
“You’re insane,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“You love me.”
“So damn much.”
He kisses you again.
And again.
Hands sliding beneath the oversized shirt, fingertips tracing carefully around the fresh tattoo.
His expression changes every single time he looks at it.
Like he genuinely can’t believe you did this.
“You know,” you say softly, “you stared at me for like a full minute.”
“I was havin’ a religious experience.”
You burst out laughing.
Boone grins, but there’s still emotion sitting heavy behind it.
“You got my initial tattooed on you.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
He leans down, pressing a slow kiss directly beside the tattoo.
The contact sends a shiver through you instantly.
Boone notices.
Of course he notices.
His eyes flick up to yours with immediate smugness.
“Oh?”
“Don’t start.”
“That sensitive right there?”
“Boone.”
His grin widens.
Then softens again almost immediately.
Because underneath the teasing, underneath the flirting and warmth and years of familiarity, there’s something deeper settling into his chest.
Something enormous.
He loves you so much it physically hurts sometimes.
That’s the truth of it.
You are stitched into every part of his life now.
Every future thought automatically includes you.
Every plan bends around you.
Every version of happiness he’s ever imagined has your face in it.
And now there’s proof of him on your skin.
Permanent.
Chosen.
Boone cups your jaw gently.
“When’d you get it?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you hid this from me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You succeeded.”
You smile softly. “You like it?”
Boone looks genuinely offended.
“Baby, I’m obsessed with it.”
That makes you laugh again.
God, that sound.
He’d chase it forever.
“You know what the tattoo artist said?” you ask.
“What?”
“She asked if I was nervous about getting somebody’s initial tattooed on me.”
Boone’s brows lift.
“And?”
You shrug lightly.
“Told her there wasn’t really a universe where you weren’t gonna be in my life.”
That one nearly takes him out completely.
You actually watch Boone lose composure.
His face crumples with helpless affection as he pulls you into another kiss immediately.
“You’re killin’ me tonight,” he mutters.
“Good.”
“You realize I gotta marry you now.”
You blink.
The words hang there.
Casual.
But not casual.
Boone realizes it exactly one second later.
“…Well,” he says slowly.
Your eyes widen slightly.
“Boone.”
He exhales a laugh through his nose.
“That wasn’t how I meant to say that.”
Your heart starts pounding immediately.
“You were planning to?”
“Baby—”
“Oh my god.”
Boone groans softly as you stare at him.
“You weren’t supposed to know yet.”
“You literally just said it.”
“I know, I know.”
You’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt now.
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“When eventually?”
He squints at you suspiciously. “You interrogatin’ me?”
“Yes.”
“Illegal.”
“Boone.”
He tries to hold out another three seconds before failing completely.
“Soon.”
Your expression melts.
And suddenly Boone feels shy too, which is ridiculous considering the amount of time you’ve spent together.
But this matters.
You matter.
“I’ve been savin’ for a ring,” he admits quietly.
Your eyes go instantly glassy.
“Seriously?”
“Mhm.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
“Boone…”
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish.
“Wanted it to be good.”
You launch yourself at him so fast he almost loses balance laughing.
Then you’re kissing him everywhere—jaw, cheeks, mouth—half emotional and half ecstatic.
“You idiot,” you whisper affectionately.
“Your idiot.”
“Unfortunately.”
He gasps dramatically. “Cruel.”
You grin against his mouth.
Then your expression softens as your fingers brush through his hair.
“I don’t care about expensive rings,” you tell him quietly.
“I know.”
“I’d marry you with a ring pop.”
Boone smiles.
Slow.
Warm.
Devastating.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know that too.”
The room goes quiet around you after that.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Heavy with years of loving each other.
With everything you’ve survived together.
Storms.
Fights.
Fear.
Long roads.
Near misses.
All of it.
And somehow every single thing led here.
To Boone standing barefoot in your kitchen at night, holding the girl he’s loved for almost a decade while his initial rests permanently over her heart-side ribs.
His future.
His home.
His person.
Boone looks down at the tattoo one more time before dropping to his knees suddenly.
You blink in surprise.
“Uh—”
Before you can finish, Boone lifts your shirt carefully again and presses the softest kiss imaginable directly over the tiny cursive b.
One lingering kiss.
Full of reverence.
When he looks back up at you, his eyes are bright again.
“You got me forever now,” he says quietly.
You smile immediately.
“Had you forever a long time ago.”
And Boone—
Boone looks at you like he already knows exactly what your wedding vows are gonna sound like.
“The medieval warrior, realizing the consequences of his impulsive act, immediately approached the owner of the drone and offered to pay for the damage.
The owner of the drone was so impressed by the brilliant attack that he suggested organizing a competition for bringing down “dragons” with short spears next year.
Drone owners have another year to develop a unique “dragon-like” design for their flying machines.” (x)
I am 100% cooler with this knowing that the spear-thrower realized “oops maybe I shouldn’t have done that” and tried to make it right, and that the guy who the drone belonged to was cool with it
Tyriq knows he's loud. He's never really thought much of being loud around you.
Tyriq has never been a quiet man.
Not in the way people usually mean it.
He laughs loud—full-bodied, head thrown back, like he’s not afraid of taking up space. He talks with his hands, his voice rising and falling with whatever story he’s telling. When he walks into a room, people notice. Not because he’s trying to be the center of attention—but because he just… is.
And with you?
God, with you, he’s even worse.
Because you make him comfortable.
You make him feel like he doesn’t have to measure himself, doesn’t have to dim anything down. So he doesn’t. He teases you, bumps his shoulder into yours, talks over himself when he’s excited, gets loud when he’s passionate about something dumb like a movie scene or a song he loves.
You always smile at him when he does.
Always.
So it never even crosses his mind that it could be… too much.
It happens at an event.
It’s crowded—too many people packed into one space, music thumping just a little too hard, kids running around screaming at a pitch that cuts through everything else.
Tyriq’s off grabbing drinks when he hears your voice.
“…I just get really overstimulated when people are that loud,” you’re saying, your tone soft but strained. “It’s not their fault, it just—my brain kind of short-circuits.”
He pauses.
There’s a strange, immediate tightness in his chest.
“That loud?”
“Yeah,” you say, exhaling. “It’s just… a lot sometimes.”
He doesn’t hear the rest.
Doesn’t hear your friend laugh and say, “Girl, these kids are feral tonight,” or the way you agree, relieved that someone understands.
All he hears is you.
Overstimulated.
That loud.
Too much.
And suddenly, everything about himself feels… sharp. Overbearing. Wrong.
The change is subtle at first.
You don’t notice it immediately.
Tyriq still stands next to you, still reaches for your hand out of habit, still smiles when you look at him—but he’s quieter.
Quieter in a way that doesn’t quite feel like him.
His laugh gets shorter, softer, like he’s cutting it off before it can get too big. He stops talking over you. Stops interrupting himself mid-story. Stops leaning into the energy of the room.
He starts… watching himself.
You notice it in pieces.
The way he lowers his voice when he talks to you, like he’s afraid of being overheard. The way he hesitates before speaking, like he’s weighing whether it’s worth it. The way he doesn’t joke as loudly, doesn’t fill silences the way he used to.
At first, you think he’s just tired.
Then you think maybe something’s wrong.
Then it starts to hurt.
Because it feels like he’s… pulling away from you.
“Tyriq.”
He looks up immediately, like he always does when you say his name—but there’s something guarded in his expression now.
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head, studying him.
You’re sitting on the couch together, a comfortable kind of quiet filling the room—but it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. Not like it used to.
“What’s going on with you?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been… different.” You shift closer, your knee brushing his. “Quieter. Distant.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops.
Because he is.
You soften your voice. “Did I do something?”
That hits him harder than anything else could have.
His head snaps up. “No. No, you didn’t do anything.”
“Then what is it?” you press gently. “Because it feels like you’re… somewhere else lately.”
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face.
For a moment, it looks like he’s not going to say anything. Like he’s just going to brush it off, give you some half-answer and move on.
But then he looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And something in his chest cracks.
“I heard you,” he says quietly.
Your brows knit together. “Heard me?”
“At that event,” he continues, voice low. “You were talking about… getting overstimulated. About people being too loud.”
Your confusion deepens—until it clicks.
“Oh—”
“I didn’t realize I was doing that to you,” he rushes out, words tumbling now, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t think about it before, but—I know I’m loud, I know I can be a lot sometimes, and I just—”
“Tyriq—”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says, his voice tightening. “So I’ve been trying to… you know. Tone it down.”
Your heart aches.
Because suddenly everything makes sense.
The quiet. The distance. The carefulness.
All of it.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You think I was talking about you?”
He doesn’t answer.
But the look on his face says enough.
And it breaks you a little.
You shift closer to him, reaching for his hand.
“Baby,” you murmur softly, squeezing his fingers. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
His gaze flickers, uncertain. “You said—”
“I was talking about the kids,” you cut in gently. “The ones literally screaming like banshees right next to us?”
He pauses.
“…Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” you echo, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. “Tyriq, I love that you’re loud.”
He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you.
“You don’t—get overwhelmed?”
“Not by you,” you say immediately.
You shift again, turning fully toward him now, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek.
“You don’t understand,” you continue, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin. “When I’m overwhelmed, when my brain’s doing too much or I feel off… you’re the thing I gravitate towards.”
His brows pull together. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” you whisper. “Because you don’t make me feel small. You don’t make me feel like I have to shrink or quiet down or… disappear into myself.”
Your voice softens even more.
“You fill the space in a way that feels safe.”
He goes very still.
“I like your laugh,” you add, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like how you get excited and talk too fast and trip over your own words. I like how you take up space without apologizing for it.”
Your fingers curl lightly into his shirt.
“I like you. Exactly the way you are.”
There’s a long, quiet moment.
And then—
“You’re serious?” he asks, almost cautiously.
You huff out a soft laugh. “Dead serious.”
His shoulders drop, tension he didn’t even realize he was carrying easing out of him.
“I thought I was… too much,” he admits.
You shake your head immediately. “Never.”
Another pause.
Then, slowly—like he’s testing the waters—he lets out a slightly louder laugh at something dumb on the TV.
It’s small.
But it’s him.
Your smile widens instantly.
“There he is,” you tease softly.
He glances at you, a hint of his usual grin creeping back. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you say, nudging him. “I missed that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He studies you for a second longer—like he’s making sure you mean it.
Then, finally, he relaxes fully.
The next time he laughs, it’s louder.
The next time he talks, he forgets to keep his voice down halfway through and doesn’t bother correcting himself.
And when he starts rambling about something random, hands moving, voice animated—
Being best friends with Tyriq is something you know how to do. Something you're good at. The best at, he would argue. Hiding the fact that you're in love with him, is also something you're good at.
Set during I Know What You Did Last Summer era, Madelyn makes an appearance
Warnings: some angst
Being Tyriq Withers’ best friend is easy.
Effortless, even.
You know how he takes his coffee (too sweet, always). You know when he’s about to get overwhelmed before he does. You know how to read the shift in his shoulders, the flicker in his eyes, the difference between his public smile and his real one.
You know him.
And loving him?
That’s something you’ve learned to carry quietly.
Tucked away. Managed. Controlled.
You’re good at that too.
So when he asks you—you—to be his assistant, it almost feels like a reward.
“C’mon,” he says, grinning, leaning over your kitchen counter like he already knows you’re going to say yes. “You hate your job.”
“I don’t hate it,” you argue weakly.
“You called it ‘soul-crushing’ yesterday.”
“…okay, I strongly dislike it.”
He laughs, bright and warm, and it does something to your chest like it always does.
“Then let me fix that,” he says. “Work with me. Travel. Boss me around—God knows you already do that for free.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
“And what’s in it for you?” you ask.
Tyriq doesn’t even hesitate.
“I get you.”
Your breath catches, just for a second.
He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the best part of the deal.
And maybe that’s your first mistake—thinking it might mean something more than it does.
At first, it’s everything he promised.
Better, even.
You travel constantly—new cities, new countries, hotel rooms with views you never would’ve seen otherwise. You keep him on schedule, manage interviews, remind him to eat, to sleep, to breathe.
And he… he keeps you close.
Always.
Pulling you into conversations, introducing you like you’re important—because you are, he insists.
“That’s my girl,” he says once, arm slung lazily over your shoulders during a break between interviews. “She keeps me alive.”
Your heart stutters.
You laugh it off.
Of course you do.
But then—
There’s everything else.
The flirting.
The easy charm.
The way he lights up around people—around women—like it’s second nature.
You’ve always known he’s like this.
You’ve seen it before.
But watching it up close, night after night, city after city?
It’s different.
Harder.
Because now you’re there when the girls laugh a little too loud at his jokes. When they touch his arm. When they linger.
And he never shuts it down.
Why would he?
He’s young. Famous. Beautiful in that unfair, effortless way.
He’s living his life.
And you—
You’re standing just off to the side, holding his schedule, pretending your chest doesn’t tighten every time someone else gets a version of him you wish was yours.
The breaking point is small.
Pathetic, really.
It’s not even a big moment.
Just another party. Another after-event thing you didn’t want to go to but had to because it’s your job.
Tyriq is across the room.
Laughing.
A girl pressed close to his side, her hand on his chest like she belongs there.
And he’s not pulling away.
He looks… happy.
Carefree.
You feel like you can’t breathe.
It hits you all at once—everything you’ve been ignoring, burying, pretending doesn’t hurt.
You can’t do this.
You can’t keep standing here, watching the person you love choose everyone but you.
So you do what you’re good at.
You run.
The email is short.
Too short for what it is.
Ty,
I’m so sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I should’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t know how.
You’ll need to find someone else. I’ve already organized everything for the rest of the week.
Thank you for everything.
—Y/N
You don’t say why.
You don’t explain.
Because if you do, you might not leave.
And leaving is the only thing you’re sure you can do right.
By the time he reads it, you’re already gone.
On a plane.
Phone off.
Heart in pieces.
Tyriq thinks it’s a joke at first.
A mistake.
He reads the email three times, like the words might rearrange themselves into something that makes more sense.
They don’t.
You’re gone.
No warning. No conversation. No fight.
Just… gone.
“Yo,” he says, already dialing your number.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
His chest tightens.
“What the hell?” he mutters, pacing the hotel room.
There’s a knock at the door.
He yanks it open to find Madelyn standing there, already looking at him like she knows.
“What happened?” she asks.
He runs a hand through his hair. “She quit.”
Madelyn blinks. “What?”
“She just—sent an email and left. Didn’t say anything.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Then Madelyn sighs, crossing her arms.
“God, you’re an idiot.”
Tyriq frowns. “Excuse me?”
“She’s in love with you.”
The words hit like a punch.
“What?”
Madelyn just stares at him. “You didn’t know?”
“No—what are you talking about?”
“Oh my god,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face. “Tyriq. She’s been in love with you for years.”
He shakes his head immediately. “No. No, she would’ve said something.”
“She did,” Madelyn says. “Just not out loud.”
His chest feels tight.
Unsteady.
“That’s why she left,” she continues, softer now. “You really think she’d just walk away from you like that for no reason?”
The room feels too small.
Too loud.
Every moment replays at once—the way you look at him, the things you remember, the way you’re always there.
Always.
And suddenly—
It all makes sense.
“Shit,” he breathes.
Madelyn watches him carefully. “Yeah.”
He grabs his jacket.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You have press tomorrow—”
“I don’t care.”
And he means it.
Because if there’s even a chance—
Even the smallest chance—
That you left because you love him?
Then he’s not losing you without a fight.
It’s 2am when the knock comes.
You almost don’t answer.
Who the hell is at your door at 2am?
But something in your gut twists, pulling you forward.
You open it—
And your heart stops.
“Tyriq?”
He looks wrecked.
Tired. Rumpled. Like he hasn’t slept.
Like he got on a plane and came straight here.
Which—judging by the way he’s breathing—he probably did.
“You left,” he says.
Not accusing.
Just… broken.
Your chest caves in.
“I—”
“You left,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give me a chance to fix it.”
Tears sting your eyes immediately.
“I couldn’t stay,” you whisper.
“Why?”
You shake your head. “Tyriq—”
“Why?” he insists, voice cracking slightly.
You look at him.
Really look at him.
And realize there’s no point running anymore.
Because he followed you anyway.
“Because I love you!” you burst out.
Silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
Your breath comes shaky. “I love you, okay? I have for a long time, and I tried to ignore it, I tried to just be your friend because that’s what you needed but I can’t—” your voice breaks, “I can’t watch you fall for other people and pretend it doesn’t hurt.”
Tyriq doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
You laugh weakly, wiping at your face. “So yeah. That’s why I left. Because I’m in love with my best friend and he doesn’t love me back and I couldn’t do it anymore.”
You brace yourself.
For rejection. For pity. For the end.
Instead—
“Who said I don’t love you back?”
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
Tyriq steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head to look at him.
His eyes are glassy.
Serious in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I didn’t know,” he says, voice low. “Not like that. I thought—” he shakes his head, frustrated. “I thought you were just… mine. Not like that. Just—mine.”
Your heart is pounding.
“Ty—”
“I’ve been losing my mind since you left,” he continues. “Nothing feels right without you. I can’t focus, I can’t sleep, I can’t—” he exhales sharply. “And then Madelyn told me why and it just… clicked.”
He reaches for you, hesitating for half a second before his hands settle on your arms.
“I don’t flirt with those girls because they matter,” he says. “I do it because it’s easy. Because it doesn’t mean anything.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“You matter.”
Your breath catches.
“You’ve always mattered,” he says. “More than anyone. I just didn’t realize that what I felt—what I’ve always felt—was this.”
Tears spill over again.
“Tyriq…”
“I love you,” he says.
Simple.
Certain.
“I love you, and I was too stupid to see it until you were gone.”
Everything inside you shatters and rebuilds all at once.
“You came all this way…” you whisper.
He lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Took the first flight I could get on.”
“You have press—”
“Don’t care.”
You stare at him.
At the man you’ve loved quietly for so long.
Who crossed the world for you.
“Say something,” he murmurs.
You step forward instead.
Crash into him.
Your arms wrap around his middle, holding on like you’re afraid he might disappear.
Tyriq exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, his arms coming around you just as tight.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits into your hair.
“You almost did,” you mumble.
“Not happening,” he says immediately. “I’m not letting you run again.”
ZENDAYA
completes the famous bridal method dressing tradition from the Old English rhyme, "Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue" as part of her promo for "The Drama."
dededos
jbbartram-illu
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
areudirty
vaporwave
