This is (not even joking) my first written fanfic in a decade, sorry if it’s a bit shit. Should be gender neutral, no pronouns at least, as far as I’m aware. So, here’s some more Kyle Garrick fodder, hope it’s any good <33
An all too familiar voice rang out in your office, ruining your momentary focus. Your eyes lifted, fingers stilling against the keyboard. “Mr. Garrick, don’t call me that…!” Embarrassment flushing up your neck and to your cheeks.
Kyle Garrick was your neighbour, a true gentleman.
He always had that gorgeous smile, dressed in casual - although unfairly well fitting - clothes, hair styled just right, and you swore the lighting was a paid actor.
“Why not, bumble? Suits you just perfect. Always gardening as soon as spring rolls around, nose in the flowers, always bumping into stuff, and those socks of yours…”
He chuckled, eyes flickering to your ankles, and you instinctively tugged down the legs of your trousers, trying to hide the memory. You’d worn striped yellow and black socks once, and of course it was the moving day of your new neighbour. You’d been tending your flowerbed, when you heard a moving van and the ruckus of unpacking next door. You lived in a townhouse, hard not to.
You’d been far too nosy, accidentally bumping into your flowerbar first, followed by tripping over an abandoned handheld shovel left on the ground.
The fall wasn’t pretty nor was it silent.
You’d sprained your ankle, and caught the man's attention, all at once. Mr. Garrick, Kyle, had been a sweetheart about it - even helping you ice your swollen ankle. But he had no restraints in his teasing when it came to your clumsy behaviour, and the discovery of your striped socks, and now he called you bumble. Like a bumblebee.
Three years and you’d never gotten to live it down.
“I only wore those socks once, Mr. Garrick!”
You protested, yet he only chuckled, simply swinging a leg over your - rather low - fence as he made his way to you and your darling flower bed. He crouched next to you, smiling at your flowers before smiling at you, fingertips grazing your ankle where you were kneeled. “How many times do I have to ask you to address me as Kyle, bumblebee? And,” A small smirk on his face appeared, eyes shifting up as his pearly whites peeked out from his full lips. “twice, now, innit?” He teased.
The tip of your ears warmed, his thumb now gently grazing your ankle in circular motions. “That’s how I was raised, Mr. Garrick. And I’m only wearing these socks—” You spoke near shyly, picking at the non-existing weeds, you’d already pulled them all. “Kyle, please?” His voice was gentle, soft, even as he interrupted you. He spoke in a way you simply couldn’t resist. “Think we’ve been neighbours for long enough to be on a first name basis, hells, are we not friends?” He cocked his head, those big brown eyes looking into yours.
You’d been raised to use last names, even for those close to you. It was a childhood habit that had just stuck. Yet…
It took absolutely no pressure for you to break, to relent. He had a point, three years of friendship warrented something more familiar. “Kyle, then. Are we happy now?” You uttered, turning your head back as you preened off any bad leaves, not wanting your flowers sickly looking. He snaked his arm around your shoulder, making you lean against him in a sort-of hug. “There ya go bumble, knew you’d do it for me.” He praised with great amusement, once again teasingly, leaning close.
You could never tell if he had interest in you, he seemed flirty at times, but it could just be the teasing confusing you. You’d never ask, hadn’t ever brought it up for the three years you’d been neighbours. A bit of a coward.
He was terribly charismatic, and you were sure that was all that was to it. You didn’t want to ruin a good friendship, this tranquility around the two of you.
He let out a great laugh, squeezing you into him. “You’re adorable, bumble.”
Three solid knocks, familiar ones. “Just a mo’!” You called out, turning the heat of your stove down. You wiped your hands on your apron, making way to the door, opening up. And there he stood, waiting patiently. “Smells delicious.” Was all he needed to say. You stepped aside and he entered, rubbing his hands together.
“It’s eggs n’ ham on toast, you cannot be serious, Mr—“ He shot you a look, tying your tongue for a moment before you reluctantly corrected yourself. “Kyle, I was going to say Kyle.” He hummed, pleased.
He tapped your chin, walking over to the toaster as he prepared slices for you and him. He often came over when he was not working, started happening after he’d returned on a holiday, all stores closed. He’d kept coming after that, not that you minded the company. “Ah, you know exactly what bacon I like.” He mused, watching as the eggs and ham seared in their pans. You were feeling lazy tonight, hadn’t prepared a grand meal, yet he found a way to praise it anyhow.
You reached behind your back to untie your apron, didn’t want grease on your favourite clothes, but it felt silly to wear with company. Yet quick hands stopped yours, an easy smile on his face as he removed your hands from the strings of the apron.
As your thinking eyes met his, brows knitted in a sort of confusion. For the first time, you saw him hesitate, almost unsure of himself. “It… looks cute, keep it on.” He murmured, not quite meeting your eyes as he placed your hands by your sides, his hand finding the small of your back.
A gentle touch, guiding you back to the pan, as not to waste your efforts, an easy smile as your eyes met. For a few minutes, all that could be heard was the quiet sizzling of the pan, the toast popping out of the toaster, the telly droning on in the back.
It was tranquil, peaceful. Treasured by both of you.
