[moontear223]

⸝⸝ 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀ 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐧 ! she / her 20. march pisces ˎˊ˗ hopeless romantic dance student dilf lover lace ocean air + lipstick stains, nostalgia 𓂃۶ৎ belmont cameli's #1 fan order me a tiramisu multi fandom blog „so tell me you love me,“˖ ݁♬

about me guidelines m.list <3

[katieron]

[notgaybuckybarnes]

BELMONT CAMELI Instagram Story 7/9/26

[moontear223]

getting sleep deprived in this heatwave fml 🫩

[moontear223]

　　　۶ৎ About You 1975

synopsis: every song reminds garrett graham of her. tonight, he follows them home.

content warnings : 𝒇em ! reader angst yearning second chances

The highway is almost empty by the time Garrett turns the radio on.

The speakers crackle to life, swallowing the silence that had settled somewhere between the rhythmic hum of the engine and the rain threatening to fall. Music follows quietly, soft enough to become part of the drive rather than interrupt it.

Garrett has never been particularly good at sitting with his own thoughts. Silence had a habit of asking questions he wasn't ready to answer, so somewhere along the way he'd learnt to drown it out instead.

His body remembers the drive before his mind does. Left at the lights. Straight through the junction. Follow the road until the air smells faintly of salt. He doesn't need directions anymore. Some roads become muscle memory before they become memories.

Regret wasn't loud. It settled into the smallest things instead—old songs, familiar roads, habits he'd never quite managed to break.

He knows he hurt you. He can see that now.

Loving you had never been the difficult part. But being there when you needed him was.

It didn't happen all at once. Relationships rarely fell apart that way. Instead, it happened in little pieces. Practice running later than expected. Team meeting that couldn't wait. Road trips that stole entire weekends. A quick text apologising for another cancelled dinner. A phone call cut short because his coach needed him. Garrett spent so long believing he was building a future for the two of you that he never realised he was asking you to spend it alone.

Usually, by now, you'd have something to say about the music.

You always did. Whether it was complaining that his playlists were painfully predictable or reaching across the centre console to change the station before he'd even had the chance to object, silence had never really existed between the two of you. There was always something. A joke. An argument. A story you'd forgotten to tell him until halfway through the drive.

But now? Your hands remained folded neatly in your lap. Your eyes never leave the window.

Garrett doesn't know how he managed to convince you to get in the car. Truthfully, he doesn't think he deserved to.

The last time he'd seen you hadn't ended with slammed doors or raised voices. It would've been easier if it had. Anger had a habit of burning itself out eventually. What the two of you left behind was quieter than that. A conversation that grew heavier with every sentence, two people standing in the same room who suddenly couldn't seem to reach each other anymore.

You asked him to listen.

Really listen.

Instead, he defended himself. Practise. Road trip. The season. The future I kept promising you. Tomorrow. Every excuse he'd repeated often enough to mistake for the truth. Somewhere between trying to explain himself and refusing to admit you were right, he'd said things that should've never left his mouth. Things born out of frustration and pride rather than truth. Some apologies arrived too late. Others would never be enough.

Garrett carried his regret around like bruises, pressing against the inside of his ribs every time he remembered the look on your face. He'd spent years trying to convince himself those words had only come from anger. It never made them hurt any less.

He called the moment he got home, expecting the call to go to voicemail. It did. He tried again the next morning. Then after practise. Then before bed. Somewhere between the tenth apology and the twentieth voicemail, Garrett stopped expecting you to answer.

He called anyway.

The apologies eventually gave way to habit. He'd tell you about his day instead, as though the conversation had simply become one-sided rather than ended altogether. Dean had somehow managed to burn grilled cheese again despite insisting it was impossible. He'd stopped by a café on the way home that immediately made him think of you. The old record store downtown had finally closed. Hannah had asked about you the other day.

Sometimes he'd complain about practise, forgetting for a moment that it had once been the very thing keeping him from you. Sometimes he'd tell you they'd won, and how some stupid part of him still expected to find you somewhere in the stands.

Sometimes he'd catch himself laughing halfway through a story before realising there was no one left to hear the punchline.

He always finished the voicemail the same way.

"I miss you."

And he never deleted the conversations. He couldn't.

It was the closest thing he had to hearing your voice anymore.

The beach comes into view not long after.

Garrett pulls the car into its usual spot overlooking the shoreline, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath tyres sounding no different than it had all those years ago. He turns the ignition off, but neither of you makes a move to leave. The engine clicks as it cools and the car falls still, broken only by the distant rhythm of the waves meeting the shore.

Once upon a time, he would've reached for your hand.

Tonight, he isn't sure he'd earned the right.

"Why are we here, Garrett?"

He doesn't answer straight away. His gaze stays fixed beyond the windshield on the familiar stretch of coastline bathed in the last of the evening light.

"Because this place has always been ours."

Garrett wasn't lying. This spot on the beach was ours. He couldn't count the number of times the two of you ended up here. Sometimes after dates that neither of you wanted to end. Sometimes after exams. Sometimes for no reason at all but wanting to escape everyone else for a little while. It had become your place so naturally neither of you had ever needed to say it out loud.

"That's not good enough."

The words don't come out sharp enough to be cruel. But they hurt all the same, heavy with every conversation that should've happened weeks ago but never did.

Garrett nods before he'd properly looked at you.

"I know."

The admission surprises even him. There had been a time he'd filled the space with excuses before you'd even finished speaking. Anything to soften the blow of what he'd done. Tonight, every explanation dies before it reaches his tongue.

You let out a breath that sounds somewhere between a tired laugh and disbelief, finally tearing your gaze away from the ocean outside.

"Do you?"

He doesn't answer immediately.

His eyes drift back towards the shoreline instead, watching another wave collapse against the rocks before disappearing into the next. The tide never stopped moving. It didn't wait for anyone to catch up. Somehow, that felt fitting.

"Yeah."

Your expression doesn't change.

"Then tell me why we're here."

Garrett's fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the worn leather creaking beneath his grip. He'd rehearsed this drive a hundred different ways, imagined every version of this conversation until none of them felt real anymore. None of those imagined speeches survived the moment you actually climbed into the passenger seat.

His voice softens when he finally speaks.

"Because every time I pictured us getting through this..." He pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "...it was always here. I didn't know where else to ask you to hear me out."

A humourless smile touches your lips before disappearing just as quickly.

"You had plenty of chances to talk."

"I know."

"No." You turn to face him, and somehow that's worse than you refusing to look at him at all. "You had plenty of chances to listen."

The words land harder than anything you'd said so far.

Because they were true.

He remembers every conversation he'd half listened to while checking the time. Every sentence he'd interrupted with, Can we talk about this later? Every promise to make it up to you tomorrow. Next week. When things settled down. Tomorrow had always sounded so certain back then.

"I kept telling myself things would get better after the season," he admits, the confession leaving him almost reluctantly. "Then it was after the road trip."

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head at himself.

"Then after playoffs."

The irony tastes bitter now.

"Turns out there was always an 'after.'"

Silence settles over the car again, though it no longer feels empty. It feels occupied by everything the two of you had spent months trying not to say.

"Do you know what I wanted?"

Garrett doesn't trust himself to answer. He simply shakes his head.

"I wanted one evening where I wasn't wondering if your phone was going to ring." Your gaze falls to your hands, thumbs twisting together absentmindedly. "One dinner you didn't have to leave early."

Another pause.

"One conversation where I wasn't competing with tomorrow."

His chest tightens. "You shouldn't have had to."

"I wasn't asking for you to choose between hockey and me."

You look at him again, your eyes glassy now, though your voice remains steady. "I was asking you to choose us sometimes."

The simplicity of it hurts most.

Not forever. Not always.

Sometimes.

"I know."

"I started apologising for asking."

The words hollow him out.

He remembers it now. The way you'd started saying it's okay before he'd even apologised. The way you'd smile and tell him not to worry, even when disappointment was written all over your face. He'd mistaken your understanding for acceptance.

He'd been so relieved every time you forgave him that he'd never stopped to ask what forgiving him was costing you.

"I remember."

Your brows knit together.

"Then just say it."

He nods once. "I remember."

He doesn't stop there.

'The dinner I cancelled because practise ran over."

His voice catches.

"Your graduation ceremony I spent half of checking my phone."

Another breath.

"The weekend I promised we'd go away together."

He closes his eyes briefly.

"The night you cried..."

His throat tightens.

"...and I still told you it'd be different next week."

The words sound pathetic now. Small. Worthless.

"I remember because I replay them all."

You don't answer straight away.

Outside, the sea keeps moving exactly as it always has, indifferent to the ache inside the car. When you finally speak, your voice has lost some of its edge.

"Why now?"

Garrett stares at the dashboard for a long moment.

Because I almost lost you. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I was terrified.

None of them are good enough.

"Because I finally realised I was asking you to keep believing in a version of me I wasn't giving you."

Another wave crashes against the shore. He doesn't look away this time.

"I can't undo what I did." His hands fall away from the steering wheel, resting uselessly in his lap. "I can't ask you to forget it."

The truth feels strangely freeing.

"All I can tell you is that loving you was never the problem."

His voice falters.

"I just got so caught up trying to build the life I thought you deserved..." A sad smile flickers across his face.

"...that I forgot to show up for the one we already had."

Neither of you says anything for a while. There isn't much left to say, not after months of conversation that had gone unfinished. For the first time in what feels like forever, the silence isn't working against the two of you. It simply exists, giving every confession the space it deserves.

Your gaze softens despite yourself. The man sitting beside you no longer resembles the one you'd walked away from weeks ago.

Not the captain who always had somewhere else to be. Not at the hockey player who'd spent too long believing they'd always be tomorrow. Not the man who kept leaving.

Just Garrett.

Tired. Regretful. Hopeful enough to believe you'd still be sitting beside him after everything he'd put you through.

"Do you really believe all that?"

He meets your eyes without hesitation. "I do."

A quiet breath leaves him.

"More than anything."

The silence between you feels different. Not lighter. Just less lonely.

Garrett doesn't reach for you. Doesn't ask whether you've forgiven him. Doesn't beg for another chance. He simply waits, accepting that whatever happens next belongs to you.

You watch him for another long moment before your shoulders finally soften.

"Come here."

Garrett doesn't move. Not at first.

His eyes search yours, cautious in a way you've never seen before, as though he's afraid this is another moment he'll wake up thinking he'd imagined it.

You don't repeat yourself.

You don't have to.

He shifts closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. His shoulder brushes yours first, then his arm. Every inch he closes feels deliberate, stripped of the easy confidence he'd once carried so effortlessly.

When his face is finally in front of you, neither of you says a word.

You study him instead.

The man you loved. The man who'd hurt you. The same man, somehow.

Your hand lifts before you can second-guess yourself, fingertips grazing the roughness beginning to settle along his jaw. He exhales softly, his eyes falling shut for the briefest moment as he leans into your touch without thinking. The realisation catches him almost immediately.

His eyes open again, searching yours, asking a question he doesn't quite know how to voice.

You answer it by closing the distance.

The first kiss is impossibly gentle. Barely more than a lingering brush of your lips against his.

Tentative.

Almost hesitant.

A promise that neither of you is ready to put into words.

Garrett doesn't chase you when you pull away. He stays exactly where he is, his forehead hovering just shy of yours, his breathing a little less steady than before.

The restraint almost undoes you.

Because months ago, he would've smiled against your mouth, stolen another kiss before you'd even had the chance to think.

Now he waits.

He lets you choose.

So you kiss him again.

This time, he melts into it.

His hand finds your waist, settling there lightly, his thumb brushing once against your side before becoming still again. It isn't possessive. It isn't impatient. It's as though he's reassuring himself you're really here.

You shift closer.

His breath catches.

The kiss lingers longer this time, familiar enough to remind you how naturally the two of you had always fit together. The uncertainty doesn't disappear all at once, but it begins to loosen its grip with every quiet second you remain wrapped up in each other.

His other hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb resting beneath your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

You'd missed this.

Missed him.

When you part, it's only because breathing eventually becomes unavoidable. Your foreheads remain together, noses brushing as quiet smiles threaten despite everything.

Then Garrett looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Whatever he finds there makes something soften in his expression.

He kisses you again.

This one is different. Not because there's any less care behind it, but because some of the fear has finally given way to hope. The kiss deepens naturally, built on quiet reassurance instead of desperation. Months of longing settle into every lingering touch, every slow inhale shared between you, every reluctant pull away before your lips find each other again.

Your fingers disappear into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he lets out the smallest, almost imperceptible breath against your mouth.

His hand at your waist draws you a fraction closer. Not enough to overwhelm.

Just enough that the space between you disappears.

For a while, neither of you remembers the conversation that brought you here. There are no apologies now. No promises. Only the fragile relief of rediscovering something you'd both been terrified was gone for good.

When Garrett eventually pulls back, it isn't because he wants to.

His forehead rests against yours again, his eyes still closed as though opening them might somehow end whatever fragile thing the two of you had managed to piece back together. Your breaths mingle in the small space between you, uneven but slowly finding the same rhythm.

A shaky breath escapes him before he can stop it.

Then another.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his shoulders tense beneath your hand, the way his jaw tightens as though he's physically trying to swallow everything threatening to spill over.

When he finally speaks, his voice catches almost immediately.

"Fuck."

The words come out softer than either of you had ever heard from him.

He lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh, except there's nothing amused about it. His face crumples, the corners of his mouth trembling as he ducks his head, one hand dragging roughly across his eyes in a hopeless attempt to pull himself together.

"I'm so..."

His voice breaks.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head at himself before trying again.

"I'm so fucking sorry."

The apology hangs between you.

Not polished.

Not rehearsed.

Not the kind he'd left behind dozens of unanswered voicemails.

This one is stripped bare.

"I was selfish." His voice is barely above a whisper now. "I kept asking you to wait for me."

Another unsteady breath.

"And every time you did..." He finally looks at you again, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression twisted with a kind of guilt that had long since settled into something permanent. "...I made you feel like you were asking for too much."

The words linger.

Neither of you rushes to fill the silence.

Your fingers find his wrist instead, gently curling around it. A gentle reminder you're still here.

"I know."

The words aren't cruel. They aren't forgiving either.

Just true.

Garrett's eyes squeeze shut again, his laugh catching somewhere behind another shaky breath.

"I don't deserve you."

"No."

The answer comes so quickly it almost catches him off guard. His expression falls another inch before the smallest smile begins to tug at your lips.

"You don't."

He stares at you, utterly crestfallen for one terrifying second, genuinely believing you'd meant it. Then you bump your forehead lightly against his.

"But you're still an idiot."

A wet laugh escapes him despite himself, somewhere between relief and disbelief. It sounds unfamiliar at first—like he's forgotten what it feels like to laugh with you. "There she is."

"You thought one speech was going to fix everything?"

"I was hoping."

"You've always been annoyingly optimistic."

"I play hockey."

"That's not how that works."

"It works for me."

You roll your eyes, unable to stop the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. It isn't a laugh. Not quite. But Garrett catches it immediately.

He always does.

The tension eases by a fraction. Not gone, but no longer suffocating or erased by a few apologies and a moment of honesty. For the first time in a long while, there's room to breathe.

"I love you."

The words leave him almost absentmindedly, as though he'd stopped trying to find the perfect moment somewhere between apologising and making you smile again. They're soft. Uneventful.

But somehow, that makes them feel even more honest.

Your expression softens. The words steal the air from your lungs, not because you didn't know, but hearing him say it now—after everything. Feels different.

Your palm settles against his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along the edge of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch and you sit with him.

You trace the familiar lines of his face while he watches you, holding onto every detail to memory. The way the moonlight catches your eyes, the smile you'd spent so long refusing to give him, the warmth of your hand still resting against his face.

You both acknowledge each other's presence. That somehow, after all the hurt and all the distance, he found his way back to you.

"I know."

Garrett lets out a long, suffering groan, dropping his forehead in the crook of your neck. "You seriously just did that?"

"You walked right into it."

"I poured my heart out."

"And I appreciate that."

"Baby."

Your smile widens, amusement finally beginning to outweigh the hurt that had followed the two of you into the car.

"I love you too."

The words echo for a while after they've been spoken. Long enough that Garrett almost believes he'll hear them again.

But memories had a habit of ending too soon.

The familiar crackle of the radio bleeds back into the air.

Wind tears across the shoreline, violent enough to sting against his face. Somewhere behind him, the driver's side door hangs open, the speakers fighting against the weather as the old record continues to spin.

A song that had once belonged to the two of you.

Garrett leans heavily against the hood of the car, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

The waves are rough today. Bigger than he remembers. They throw themselves against the rocks with enough force to send white foam spilling back into the tide, only to return and do it all over again.

Funny.

The ocean had never learned how to let go either.

He supposes neither had he.

A year had passed.

Three hundred and sixty-five days, yet Garrett could still remember every detail with terrifying clarity. The phone call. The way his stomach had dropped before he'd even answered. The silence on the other end that lasted just a second too long. The kind that told your life was about to split into a before and an after.

The same road.

The same bend.

The same stretch of coastline he'd driven so many times he could've done it with his eyes closed.

Except you never made it around the corner.

For a long time, Garrett hated himself for thinking there had to be some mistake. As though if he refused the believe the words, they'd somehow become untrue. As though someone else could've been driving your car that night.

They weren't.

The words had sounded impossible.

Because you loved the ocean.

You'd spent half your summers chasing waves and collecting shells like they were treasures, insisting every beach had its own personality. You'd once told him the sea made everything feel smaller. Simpler. Like no matter how bad life got, the tide would always find its way back home.

Garrett had believed you.

He always thought the sea would be the safest place in the world for you.

Funny how love has a way of making places seem harmless.

God...

He misses you.

Not just on anniversaries.

Not just when this song comes on the radio.

He misses you on Tuesday mornings when the coffee tastes wrong because you were always the one who convinced him to add another splash of milk. He misses you every time someone reaches across the centre console to change the station, only to realise it isn't your hand. He misses whenever he walks past the old café downtown, the record store that's long since closed, the empty seat beside him on every drive that somehow still feels like it belongs to you.

He misses the sound of your laugh echoing from another room before you'd come looking for him. The way you'd steal his hoodies as though they'd been yours all along. The dramatic sigh you'd let out whenever he played the same song twice, only to end up humming it under your breath anyway.

People always said time made things easier. Garrett wasn't sure he'd agreed. Time hadn't taken you away any more than it had brought you back. All it had done was teach him how to carry the absence. It settled into familiar routines now, into songs he'd stopped skipping, into the passenger seat he'd never quite learnt to look away from, into every version of tomorrow you'd once been part of.

Do you honestly think he had forgotten?

About you.

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

WHITE LILIES LOOK BETTER IN RED

In light of recent events, members of the university community are advised to avoid walking alone after dark. Information is available at https://www.briaruniversity.edu

Any suspicious activity, or a white lily left in an unusual location — should be reported immediately to Briar University Campus Security via email or by contacting local authorities at [phone]

　　　　　　INCIDENT LOG 𓂃🖊

CASE FILE 001: party favours CASE FILE 002: unknown CASE FILE 003: unknown CASE FILE 004: unknown CASE FILE 005: unknown

investigation pending. . . .

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

　　　۶ৎ INTRODUCING BALLET READER !

satin ribbons leg warmers iced coffee rehearsals pointe shoes serenity classical music fresh bouquets love letters dior perfume pirouettes

Ballet reader ! who has an almost impossible amount of self-discipline. She'll wake up before sunrise for rehearsals, stretch while waiting for the kettle to boil, and practise combinations in empty hallways without even thinking about it. Discipline stoped feeling like a choice years ago—it simply became a part of who she is.

Ballet reader ! whose posture never really disappears. Even curled up on the sofa in oversized pyjamas, she somehow still sits with her shoulders relaxed, her back straight, and her movement deliberate. Years of correction from teachers have become muscle memory.

Ballet reader ! who has learned that elegance is often mistaken for fragility. People assume she's delicate because she's quiet, but they've never seen her dance through blistered feet, bruised toes, and twelve-hour rehearsal days without complaining.

Ballet reader ! who has a surprisingly dry sense of humour once she's comfortable. She's quiet around strangers, but around people she loves she'll slip little sarcastic comments into conversations so casually that it sometimes takes a second for everyone else to realise she's joking.

Ballet reader ! who is strangely fearless in some situations and overly cautious in others. Performing in front of hundreds of people? Fine. Making a phone call to book an appointment? She'll rehearse what she's going to say three times first.

Ballet reader ! who falls in love with people's character long before she notices their appearance. She remembers the way someone speaks to waiters, how gently they hold babies, whether they notice when someone needs help without being asked. Attraction fades but kindness rarely does.

Ballet reader ! who secretly loves museums more than shopping. She could spend hours wandering through quiet galleries, reading every little plaque, standing in front of the same painting until everyone else has moved on. She likes places where nobody expects you to fill the silence.

Ballet reader ! who believes everyone deserves flowers at least once in their life for no particular reason. She'll buy bouquets simply because someone had a difficult week or because peonies were finally in season. Celebrating people shouldn't require an occasion.

Ballet reader ! who wears the same perfume before every performance. It started as superstition more than anything else, but after years of associating that familiar scent with stepping onto a stage, she can't imagine dancing without it. One spray on each wrist, one behind her ears, and suddenly the nerves become excitement.

Ballet reader ! who inherited her mother's habit of keeping everything sentimental. Old recital tickets, birthday cards, dried flowers, tiny ribbons—they're all tucked into boxes because throwing them away feels like losing a memory.

Ballet reader ! who collects vintage ballet books and old theatre programmes whenever she visits a new city. Some are falling apart at the spine, others still have handwritten notes in the margins from previous owners. She likes imagining whose hands held them long before hers.

Ballet reader ! who has spent so much of her life striving to become 'good enough' that she sometimes forgets the people who love her were never waiting for perfection. It takes her longer than she'd like to believe she can be exhausted, uncertain, make mistakes, or simply have a bad day and still be worthy of being chosen.

Ballet reader ! who finds beauty in ordinary routines. She'll open the windows first thing every morning, buy fresh flowers with her groceries, and light a candle even if she's only folding laundry. She grew up believing everyday life deserved the same care and attention as special occasions. She's never quite understood saving beautiful things for 'one day'.

Ballet reader ! who falls in love slowly, but all at once. She'll spend months convincing herself she only admires someone, quietly collecting little reasons why they're wonderful without thinking much of it. Then one ordinary afternoon she'll catch herself smiling at the sound of their laugh or looking for them in every room, and suddenly realise she'd been falling in love long before she'd allowed herself to admit it.

Ballet reader ! who can't resist watching performances whenever she passes a theatre. Even if she only catches five minutes from the back row, she'll stay, completely captivated, as though she's falling in love with ballet all over again.

　　　　　⤷ BALLET READER WORKS !!

the language of peonies ◞ intermission ◞ home is wherever you are ◞ how to say goodbye to a dream ◞ wrong building ◞ all coming soon . . .

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

　　　۶ৎ INTRODUCING TIRAMISU READER !

café corners warm hands ceramic mugs handwritten notes expresso sheer tights gold jewellery quiet elegance slow mornings heels soft devotion

Tiramisu reader ! who grew up in a family where meals were something that lasted for hours. Dessert was never rushed and conversations lingered long after everyone had finished eating; somewhere along the way, she learned that some of the best moments in life happen after everyone stops paying attention to the clock. She's never been someone who enjoys rushing through life.

Tiramisu reader ! whose love language is quality time, acts of service, and gentle physical affection. She isn't the type to make grand romantic gestures. Instead, she'll remember exactly how you take your coffee, quietly replace your empty water bottle with a full one, or absentmindedly rest her knee against yours while reading beside you on the couch.

Tiramisu reader ! who always smells comforting. Warm vanilla, expresso beans, cocoa, amber, sandalwood. Nothing overpowering but just enough that people begin associating the scent with home.

Tiramisu reader ! who struggles to let people take care of her. She finds comfort in serving others, remembering birthdays, bringing homemade desserts, checking everyone got home safely—but the moment someone asks if she's okay, she instinctively brushes it off with a smile and changes the subject.

Tiramisu reader ! who overthinks almost everything. Not because she's anxious, but because she hates saying something she'll regret. She'll replay conversations while washing dishes, wondering if she sounded too quiet, or too distant, or just too much.

Tiramisu reader ! who always has lip balms, mints, a tiny notebook in her bag. She writes down café recommendations, quotes she overhears, recipes she wants to try, and little observations she doesn't want to forget.

Tiramisu reader ! who is very expressive due to her Italian roots. She talks with her hands without realising it—pointing, shaping stories in the air, lightly touching people's arms when she emphasises something. And when she gets excited, her whole face changes before her words even catch up.

Tiramisu reader ! who becomes someone they can rely on, especially in emergencies. She doesn't panic outwardly. Instead, she observes first, taking in everything, deciding what actually matters, and only then does she move. People sometimes mistake her calm for detachment, but it's really her trying not to add noise to something already overwhelming.

Tiramisu reader ! who always has a book tucked away in her bag. Not because she plans on reading it, but because she likes knowing it's there. Waiting for appointments, long train rides, sitting in cafés while her coffee cools—she'll happily disappear into another world for a little while. The corners of her books are slightly worn, the spines gently creased from being loved rather than displayed.

Tiramisu reader ! who finds silence comfortable, but not empty. In her home, there is always something happening in the background: music, a boiling kettle, the hum of a fan, soft conversation. Complete silence feels unnatural to her.

Tiramisu reader ! who keeps olive oil, garlic, and parmesan like essentials rather than ingredients. If her kitchen is missing those three things, she considers it a crisis.

Tiramisu reader ! who becomes incredibly affectionate once she's comfortable with someone. At first she's reserved, almost impossible to read. But once you become her person, she'll constantly seek you out without realising it—sitting beside you instead of across from you, reaching for your hand or stealing your hoodies because they smell like you, and finding comfort in simply existing in the same room.

Tiramisu reader ! who enjoys baking, but only when it feels emotional rather than practical. She'll bake when she misses someone, when the weather turns quiet, or when she's stressed. Her desserts are less about precision and more about comfort, always slightly imperfect but deeply intentional.

Tiramisu reader ! who feeds people without announcing it. She'll casually place a fork of pasta near someone's mouth while they're talking, like it's the most natural thing in the world. No explanation. No hesitation.

Tiramisu reader ! who, no matter where she goes, will always order a tiramisu if it's on the menu. It doesn't matter how full she is, how many times she's had it that week, or how 'fancy' the restaurant is trying to be. She'll still order it, it's like a reflex she can't override anymore.

　　　　　⤷ TIRAMISU READER WORKS !!

i will leave the light on ◞ five more minutes ◞ all coming soon. . .

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

promise im working on the farmers market fic, just got back from los angeles and i haven't yet had the time to work on it 🫡

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ 🏒 ──── 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐌 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboards ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

about you 1975 ◞ white lilies look better in red

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

hihi! not sure if you’re taking requests, but can you do a fluff piece with jordan huxhold? thank you!!!

hiii love, i'm not taking any requests at the moment but the good news is i ammm writing a jordan huxhold fic as we speak 😛

(psst, it's a farmers market romance)

[moontear223]

i'm convinced off campus has drugs in it because i can't stop watching that show ☕️

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ ☕️ ──── 𝐉𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐗𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboard ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

nothing's gonna hurt you baby ◞ california honey

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ 🌾 ──── 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboards ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ 🦌 ──── 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboards ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ ⭐️ ──── 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboards ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved

[moontear223]

𓏲 ˖ 🐺 ──── 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐍 .

𝓲. miscellaneous items

moodboards ◞ p!links

𝓲𝓲. one shots ﾉ series

moonlit stranger wc 1.8k

𝓲𝓲𝓲. blurbs ﾉ drabbles

nothing here yet

𝓲𝓿. headcannons ﾉ thoughts

nothing here yet

© moontear223 all rights reserved