f/o accidentally calling you by a nickname they made up in their head and never said out loud before and struggling to explain themselves (you found it endearing)
Yearbook Club did burn three study halls a week, but Emerson considered it worth it.
"We have to have a section where we interview students about the Dr. Clifford allegations." Lucy Stevens, editor-in-chief and president of the club, sat in the teacher's chair, her clunky boots crossed over one another on top of the desk. "It's timely, it's memorable, it's gotta be at least a half-page spread. It'll be great."
"Absolutely no way we'll get away with that." Tim didn't look up from his chem assignment, but he didn't really need to– his laptop had the current work-in-progress projected onto the board.
"Mr. Goodman's gonna like it!" Lucy pulled the hairtie out of one of her space buns and began retying it– her ends had faded to a pale pink, remnants of the summer's Kool-Aid dye. (Em and Tim swore that they'd bleach their hair together the summer before college; Lucy presided over this oath.) "He'd think it's funny."
"Right, but Dad's not the one who has to sign off on the final product, and I don't want to do layout for something we know we'll have to scrap." He tapped some Skittles into his mouth, and around them, continued, "Em, back me up on this."
When Emerson didn't respond, he took a Skittle and lobbed it at them.
They snapped to attention, their fingers still curved over their keyboard. "Sorry, was that not part of the minutes?"
"Emmie, you do not have to actually take minutes."
"I say we get your dad on board, and then make him convince his new boss that a smear piece on the former principal is exactly what this yearbook, which will be held in the school's library for posterity indefinitely, needs."
Tim grinned. "If you spin it like that, it kind of works."
is this thing on. playing with your f/os hair and their brain shuts off. putting your head against their chest and feeling their heartbeat speed up. getting close to f/os face to admire them and they’re visibly nervous. feeling their hands clam up when you take them in yours. f/o getting literal goosebumps or melting into you when you touch them. touching their cheeks and feeling the heat on their face. just f/o being so utterly down bad for you that it’s undeniable.
"For the love of– for the last time, no, I'm not giving you your phone back! No outside contact until Yes-Man gets here!"
"You can put it in airplane mode!" The hostage kicked their heels against the metal chair. "I have ebooks."
Dr. Ridley groaned into her hands. "What is it about punctuality that heroes don't understand? I said sundown, they tell you when the sun sets in the Weather app."
"Should we call him again?"
"I'm not going to call him again. What am I, desperate?"
He said it without making eye contact, tapping away at the register. "I said, that's not the name you used last time. Or the past few times before that."
They blinked. "I haven't come in here before." It came out appropriately self-assured.
"Sure. Cash or card, peppermint hot chocolate?"
The customer balked, affronted. They tugged at their scarf. "What, you think you've got my order memorized? That's not even a distinctive thing to order."
"Didn't say it was." And if the customer wasn't mistaken, they would've sworn they saw a glint in the barista's eye. "Not like I'd know."
"It's-" They swung their purse around to the front of their body, digging through it with something akin to indignation. "It's just peppermint! That's so normal!"
"When it's seasonal, sure."
"It's on the menu, isn't it?" A hint of doubt. "It is on the menu, right?"
"It certainly is something I provide when requested." There was no mistaking the hint of a smile on the barista's face. "By one particular weekly customer."
They stared, wonderingly. Behold: the barista had dimples.
"Who is now giving me a new name every week," he continued, pointedly. He had turned around, now, reaching for syrups and finessing machines. "And even if it weren't summer," he continued, over his shoulder, "do you know how many hot chocolates we sell on a weekly basis? Being that this is a coffee shop?"
"Is it a lot?"
He placed a to-go cup onto the counter and smiled again— a sharper one, this time. "One per week."
They couldn't help it— they laughed. A startle reaction more than anything.
"It's not any better than the powdered stuff." He turned away again. "And you could buy the peppermint flavoring yourself."
"Yeah, but it's no fun if I write my own name on the cup."
"That name that you keep changing."
Shyly, they shrugged. "Maybe I'm trying them out."
He nodded, scrawling something onto the cup in marker.
What it said, under the customer's new name: maybe I like this one, followed by a string of digits.
imagine your f/o who struggles to eat healthy/regularly… now imagine them eating more consistently since meeting you because you eat together or taste test each other’s cooking…
Your f/o saw something today that reminded them of you. It's not a nice thing. It's a weird rock, or a bird with an attitude problem, or a piece of trash shaped strangely. They took a picture. They are going to show you. They think this is romantic and, terribly, they're right.
Your f/o has developed a very specific habit of standing slightly closer to you than necessary. Not touching. Just... within range. They have not consciously noticed they're doing this. Everyone else has.
2087
dailybridgerton
stormborns
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gummygunk
titsay
origamiaround
