₊˚⋆ℒ𝑖𝑙𝑦𓂅 @sturnililio - Tumblr Blog

﹙ ꣑꣒ ﹚ 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐛𝐥𝐫𝐬 #1 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 ᘡ ˖

˗ˏˋℳ𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 ˎˊ˗ . . . 𝐼𝒏 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝒎𝑛 𝐶𝒉𝑢𝑛𝑘𝑦 𝑗𝑒𝑤𝒍𝑙𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝐶𝑟𝑦𝑏𝒂𝑏𝑦 𝑆𝑎𝑟𝒄𝑎𝑠𝑚 𝐶𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒦𝑒𝑦𝑐𝒉𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 ℬ𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑥𝒖𝑎𝑙 ℱ𝑎𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑐 ℱ𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 ℋ𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝒉𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑇𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑦 ℋ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑆𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑠 ℳ𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑂𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝒜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙 𝒩𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝐷𝑦𝑒𝑑 𝐻𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑇𝑖𝑚 ℬ𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑜𝑛 ℒ𝑒𝑜 ℒ𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝐷𝑒𝑙 𝑅𝑒y

𝑁𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 ♥︎

𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝓛𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 ℋ𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏...

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐮 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝐄𝐬𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 '25

‧₊˚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𓂃 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔. 𝑺

Best friends since the first grade—that type of bond sticks. You've had your ups, downs, and in the middles with each other, seen each weird phase, and shared the giggles of that awkward first kiss that left you teasing Chris for years after.

People say you're joint at the hip, they call you inseparable, maybe obsessed with each other. You two call it friendship, nothing more than sleepovers and scary movies, words whispered in the dark like secrets at a teenage girls' slumber party.

Tonight is no different, except you're older, giggles turning into deeper conversations while the movie is forgotten in the background, and neither of you are paying attention as it fades into white noise. His brothers aren't home, probably out with each other, or not. Who knows? Neither of you cares.

The room is warm, a safe heaven that you have come accustomed to. Chris' sheets smell the same, a mix between his cologne and something undeniably him, something you've never quite been able to place. But it smells like home, more than your own ever has.

And as you lay there, heart heavy, breaths just a little too quick, you can feel him. His warmth, his fingertips brushing against yours under the sheets like you've got something to hide. Maybe you do.

Something about the heat of his touch, the sparks that flow through your body remind you. You two were barely twelve, and you dared him to hold your hand during the scary movie. He did. He didn't let go. Not even when the credits rolled or when you drifted to sleep with your head on his shoulder.

Now, after all these years, you wonder if you're still daring him, or maybe yourself. Or if that dare turns into hope, hope that he might just want to hold your hand. Perhaps hold you.

Because as he drifts off to sleep, unaware of the heaviness of your mind—the thoughts that are consumed by him, night and day—you're awake. Eyes glued to the ceiling as if the answers are hidden in the paint. They're not.

You don't know the answers, or even the question you're asking. Because Chris is your best friend. He always has been, and that's all he'll ever be.

You tell yourself that. You almost believe it.

[ 💌 ] sigh.. yes, this is a repost.. kinda. It's a better version and I lowkey miss this writing style? It feels more poem-y if you get what I mean? Always, I really like this one and hope its gets more attention this time, and I hope you liked it too !!!

☏︎ . . . @swiftie-in-the-moonlight @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb @aaliyah-sturns @sturniolobananas10 @kenah-sturniolo @emely9274 @lyingonchris @dandoonsturns @courta13 @sturnxluvv @conspiracy-ash @sabprincess @spookysturniolo @pepsipoet @sorrybirds @naomifluer @matts-babytomatoes @babyt0matoes @alorsxsturn @urfaveprettypsycho @breesturn @pauramoure

‧₊˚. 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 𓂃 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅

| 𝑪𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 - 𝑬𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒚

The sun had set hours ago, and the moon now glistened over the city. It's a Friday night, and most people your age are out right now, either clubbing with friends or doing something else that involves alcohol.

But not you.

Instead, you're with Matt, in the safe, quiet confines of your apartment. You're sat on the kitchen counter, feet dangling off the edge, almost swallowed by one of Matt's old hoodies. One he had left here and never took back.

The air stirs with the smell of garlic and something sweeter as Matt stands over the stove, concentration written into his features as he cooks dinner. It's calm. Domestic, even. In a way that makes your heart ache and love grow even more.

The faint hum of music drifts from the Alexa in the corner, quiet and steady, like a playlist made for this exact moment, and you're sure it was. Because as the song melts into the next, you swear you feel the atmosphere shift.

Matt looks straight at you as the song plays through the speaker — 'Can't Help Falling in Love,' by Elvis Presley. The first song you and Matt ever slow danced to. The first time you two got that close.

A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he looks at you, your expression mirroring his when you already know what's coming.

"C'mon, baby, dance with me," he mutters, his voice low but filled with warmth. Your eyes drop to his extended hand, and a small laugh bubbles from your throat at the formality.

But you do it anyway, carefully hopping off the counter and taking his hand in your own, "Only if you insist," You reply, your voice just as low, and definitely just as warm.

Matt's hand rests on your waist as you rest your head against his chest, Elvis Presley's deep voice filling the space around you, bringing back memories you never wanted to let go of.

His hand holds yours firmly, a faint smile on his lips as he kisses the crown of your head, the smell of you filling his senses. You smelled like home. Like the one thing he needed more than his next breath.

He holds you there for a while, tucked into his body as dinner is forgotten on the stove. That was a problem for later.

And now, as you dance barefoot in the kitchen, you realise you never really needed to go out to have fun, because you can do it right here.

In the arms of the man you love.

[ 💌 ] A little blurb before bed :>.. and uhh.. i got lazy on the layout, so sorry about that ! Hope you enjoyed it, though :)

☏︎ . . . @swiftie-in-the-moonlight @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb @aaliyah-sturns @sturniolobananas10 @kenah-sturniolo @emely9274 @lyingonchris @dandoonsturns @courta13 @sturnxluvv @conspiracy-ash @sabprincess @spookysturniolo @pepsipoet @sorrybirds @naomifluer @matts-babytomatoes @babyt0matoes @alorsxsturn @urfaveprettypsycho @breesturn

ℬ𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

⤷ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧 ₊♡ ﾟ ˖

The hot chocolate in your hand had gone more lukewarm now, the marshmallows half sunk, and the cream was dripping down the side of your mug. You keep your eyes focused on the fire, the orange flames dancing in the sunset, the smell of smoke clinging to your clothes, and most definitely, your blanket.

Everyone around you is laughing. The triplets invited a few friends over, including you, to get everyone in the Halloween spirit, or whatever. A bonfire night usually sounds like something you would enjoy, but right now, it feels a little different.

Your leg bounces subtly as you watch everyone make s'mores or talk about what they're dressing up as for Halloween. You're sitting in the corner, alone. The smile on your face had drained a while ago, and it seemed no one even noticed.

You don't look up until you hear his voice. it's soft, warm, and gentle in a way you didn't know you needed. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Matt's there now. His eyes glued to you frame, concern lingering in his features as he sits down next to you, offering some company.

Shrugging, you take a deep breath and try to think of something to get you out of this. You can't.

"C'mon, you've been sat here all night.. something wrong?" He presses, leaning a little closer to you. It's obvious that he's actually worried, the way he studies you gives that away, how he leans in a little too close. Though, you don't mind.

Your lip catches between your teeth, and you finally look at him. He doesn't falter, just keeps that look on his face that says 'I'm not going anywhere until you tell me'. Your shoulders slump, and a sigh leaves your lungs. Heavy. Filled with something you don't want to admit.

"It's nothing.. I'm just— I don't think I'm feeling the spooky spirit." Your eyes drop again as a breathy chuckle falls from your lips. The smile on you face doesn't quite reach your eyes, but Matt doesn't mention it. Just notices. Quietly.

"Not feeling the spooky spirit? Have you seen those two? If that's not spooky, I don't know what is." He jokes, nudging your shoulder with his as he gestures to Nick and Chris, acting like total idiots, fighting over nothing and burning their marshmallows beyond redemption.

You laugh again, real this time, the smile curling at the corners of your lips, eyes lingering on the pair as Chris almost falls into the fire. He's an actual idiot, you think to yourself, shaking your head as you look back over to Matt. "Yeah, fair enough. Those two could scare anyone."

He agrees, and for a moment, you're sitting in silence. The crackle of the wood burning fills your ears, drowning out some of the thoughts. Matt's knee brushes against your own, the contact stirring something in your heart. It was too much. Not enough. You're not so sure.

Your eyes dart around again. The people. The laughter. The chaos. Something in your chest aches, you know you want to join in, to be a part of the fun. And you don't really know what's stopping you, because before you can think about it too much, Matt's warm voice breaks the silence.

"Let's get you some hot cocoa, because that looks almost as miserable as you." He laughs, nodding his head towards your mug, which now looks more like a melted snowman in the mud. You let out a chuckle and nod, unwrapping yourself from the safety of your blanket. Because you can't say no, not when the orange glow catches his jaw, when the blue of his eyes pulls you in face-first.

Not when he's the only one that noticed you.

𝑆𝒉𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ₊♡ 𝒞𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜.

⤷𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧 ₊♡ ﾟ ˖

The warm steam curls into the mirror until it's nothing but fog against the glass, the air thick with moisture as you and Chris stand under the spray of water, stress filtering down the drain as exhaustion takes over.

Your head tilts back into Chris's chest, the only thing keeping you standing. You'd collapse without him. Every muscle aches, your whole being feels heavy and your eyes are on the brink of slipping shut. Yet, everything feels a little lighter when you're with him, wrapped in his arms.

Chris lets out a chuckle, the sound low and lazy as he feels you rest almost all your weight against him, "Someone's tired, huh?" He murmurs, arms wrapping around your waist like it's instinct, holding you securely against his chest.

You make a sound somewhere between a hum and a groan, your hands covering his, feeling the warmth of his skin against your own making you melt, "Maybe a little," you lie, you're more than a little tired, and just one glance in your direction would give that away.

Chris doesn't mind though, he just huffs out another laugh, leaning down as his lips skim across your neck and shoulder, each kiss a promise. He stands behind you as he makes sure you get most of the water, your skin warm and damp against his lips.

The bathroom is quiet, save for the sound of the water pattering against tile and skin. Chris's touch is gentle, more so than usual as his fingers glide through your hair, the shampoo creating suds as he works it into your scalp in a rhythmic motion, each brush of his fingertips feeling more like a lullaby you can't resist. Continuing to lean against him, you slip into a state of bliss, eyes closed, lips parted as you let him take care of you.

"You're lucky I love you, y'know." His voice breaks the silence, steady and deep as he continues to wash your hair. You nod, not even denying his words, because yeah, you feel lucky. He's always there. Always caring for you in a way that no one else ever could, his love is so deep that it could drown you quicker than the water falling from the showerhead.

You turn to face him as he rinses the shampoo from your hair, your eyes closed as you hold onto his forearms. He gently tilts your head back, using his free hand to shield your eyes from the soapy water, always making sure you're comfortable.

"I know. Who else would wash my hair if it wasn't you?" Your voice betrays you, the joke almost there, but you both know it's the truth. It's not about lust or hunger or anything sexual. Not this time.

This time, it's about caring. And sometimes caring comes in the form of washing your back for you, the smell of vanilla wafting through the steam as he gently scrubs the loofah over your skin, the texture a stark contrast to his soft hands. Despite the warmth, your skin litters with goosebumps, his touch and the feeling of his eyes on you making your stomach flutter in a way you know all too well.

His gaze is full of reverence as he looks down at you and the droplets forming on your skin, merging with his as the space between his body and yours begins to blur. Life outside continues, fast and chaotic, but in the bathroom, with the glass fogged up like a barrier to the outside world, time slows. It's your world. Your time.

And you relish in it. The slowness of it all, the way he touches your skin, how he handles you with so much care, like he's afraid you'll break. He's there. Steady. Stable. And he'll always be there. Though the tired showers, the sleepless nights, the 3am giggles and the late-night snack runs.

Even when you're out of the shower, all rosy cheeks and half-lidded eyes, he dries your hair, touch delicate, the hairbrush barely grazing. He's too afraid to hurt you.

You sit between his legs, a small smile on his face as he focuses on perfecting the plait in your hair, repeating the words 'over and under' to himself, his brow creased in concentration. He's careful not to pull, the plait loose and lop-sided, but you don't care.

Because even when it comes undone by the morning, you'll still be in his arms.

ℬ𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑠 ₊♡ ℳ𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜

⤷ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 ꨄ︎

The kitchen was a mess. Flour dusted every surface, making it look like it had snowed early. It was in your hair, on your clothes, covering your hands, and honestly, there was more on your face than there should be.

And Matt? He was the same, if not worse. But neither of you cared.

Warmth filled the kitchen as your laughter wrapped around the air like a promise, the smell of cinnamon and sugar making it truly feel like fall.

It was your favourite time of year. The leaves had started to turn orange, the nights got a little darker and the air had that crisp chill to it, always sending a shiver down your spine in the best way.

But here, it was warm, your cheeks pink from laughing too hard and your hair a little tousled form the messing around.

"You look like a powdered donut, y'know." Matt teases, flicking a little more flour at you just for emphasis— or maybe just to be annoying. Probably that.

You swat him away, trying your best to brush of the white powder that clung to your clothes and skin, and even though you tried to be annoyed, the smile creeping onto your lips gave you away, your eyes sparkling with the love you only held for Matt.

"Oh, and you don't? You're practically worse than me!" You shoot back, letting out another laugh at the state of him, his smile warmer than the oven.

"Well, my cookie looks better than yours!" His words are childish, he knows, but with you, he can be.

You roll your eyes, picking back up the tube of icing and turning to the cookie on the counter, adding a few details to the so-called 'ghost', when you both know it looks more like a sperm cell with eyes. A for effort, though, right?

"I think mine's pretty good, actually," You hum, half serious, half knowing his is definitely better. But you look proud of your little sperm cell, and that's enough to melt his heart.

"Oh yeah, it's great." He laughs, giving you a sidelong glance, his eyebrows raised in a way that says he doesn't have the heart to tell you the truth.

He's working on his cookie, an orange pumpkin with more detail than necessary, and better than you'd ever like to admit. He's always been a try-hard, even at something as simple as cookie decorating.

You smirk slightly, putting down your tube of icing with a mischievous glint in your eye that Matt didn't seem to catch. "Your cookie is good, y'know.." You hum, sliding next to him, your fingers drumming against the counter. Waiting for the right moment.

He notices your proximity, giving you a suspicious look, but not thinking too much of it yet. "Uh-huh.. thank you, baby." He replies, shooting you a small smile as he turns to you, also dropping his tube of icing.

You clear your throat, eyes trained on the perfect cookie. It's there one minute, and the next, it's in your hand as you attempt to run away.

"Hey! Wait- no, that's-" Matt stumbles over his words, genuinely offended by the fact you're messing with his masterpiece. He catches up to you, hands finding your hips, holding you firmly and fighting for his cookie back.

"I'm just looking at it!" You lie with a giggle, trying to squirm out of his grip as you struggle for a bite of the cookie, orange icing clinging to the corner of your mouth and smearing over your fingers.

He gasps, pulling you back into his chest, "That's so not fair! Why'd you do- ughhh—" He whines, like, actually whines. He looks like a kid who's just been rejected of his favourite toy.

You're still laughing, smug as ever, even with icing smeared across your lips and crumbs down your shirt. You spin in his arms, facing him with a smile you knew he couldn't resist.

"Sorry.. it just looked too good." You defend, tilting your head. He shoots you a glare, half playful, half serious.

"Yeah, it did look good, but it's ruined now. You literally chewed off his eye." He's pouting now, and you can't help but just laugh in his face, offering the cookie out to him.

"You want the other one?" You ask, raising a brow at him.

And of course, he gives in, leaning forward as he takes a bite of the cookie, the other eye now gone. But it's worth it.

Because yeah, the cookie was good, perfect, maybe. But to him, nothing was more perfect than the look of victory on your face. The smile that could light up the room better than any candle.

And that's all that matters.

𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 . . .

☇ 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 ! 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝒙 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 ! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝑀𝑒𝑒𝑡. . . 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 ! 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴

˗ˏˋ𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 ! 𝐶𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 . . . 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑘 ˎˊ˗ 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑭𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒕, 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑱𝒂𝒘 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒑 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒖𝒕 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝑺𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝑼𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑀𝑒𝑒𝑡 . . . 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 ! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

˗ˏˋ𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 ! 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 . . . 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑘 ˎˊ˗ 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝑫𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 '𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌' 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍 𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆

𝑩𝒂𝒅𝑩𝒐𝒚! 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

⊹˚⋆ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 ⋆˚⊹

⤷ 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬. 𝐈𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐩.

You shouldn't be here. You know that. You're not even sure why you're here. It's too loud. Too bright. Your chest vibrates with the music, and you find yourself squinting with every room you walk into.

There's people in every corner, drunk teenager spilling across the rooms, most stumbling, others pushing, and some just dont see you at all.

You've kept the same cup of lemonade since you arrived, rim dented and chewed with every wave on anxiety that flows through you. I'ts the only thing you're able to hold without feeling like it's going to fall apart.

On the other side of the chaos—Chris came in late, hood pulled low, steps lazy like he already knew he wouldn't stay long. He didn't come to have fun. Not for socialising. But to get some deals done and get out. Quick. Clean.

He's used to this life. Lives for it. The loud music drowns out his thoughts, and the flashing lights blur his own problems. The girls fall to his feet with a single look, and they lean too close like they have the right. It's his escape, and he gets lost in it.

Now he sits sprawled across a couch, some blonde draped against him, voice high and constant in his ear. He doesn’t hear her. Not really. She doesn’t laugh like you. Doesn’t talk like you. Nothing about her feels warm. Nothing about her feels real.

Not like you.

And in the noise, in the crush of bodies, something in the back of his mind hopes you’re here—even though he knows this isn’t your scene.

He doesn’t see you at first. Not until the pink catches his eye.

You've been tucked in a corner for the past ten minutes, maybe longer. Time keeps slipping through thoughts that are racing too fast.

Every cheer, laugh, and clink of glasses slice through you. Too sharp. Too jagged. It's all teeth and claws and no way out. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for that one, familiar face you always look for, hoping to find an anchor. Your anchor.

But the room feels like it's closing in, the walls too close, air too thin. Your hands tremble—slick, cold skin. You tighten your grip on your cup, almost dropping it. You catch it, almost drop it again when your heart threatens to beat out your chest. The lemonade sloshes dangerously close to the rim. You don't let go. You can't. It's the only thing you can hold. The only thing that's real.

m

You can't pull it in fast enough—every breath catches in your throat, shallow and useless. The oxygen feels stolen from your lungs. Faces morph together, strangers' eyes snagging on you for a second too long before looking away. Every glance feels too heavy. Too strong. Do they know? Can they see you unravelling?

You're sure of it.

Your legs are moving before your brain can catch up. Uncoordinated. Messy. Your drink spills as you knock into someone. Lemonade splatters all over your shoes as the plastic clatters to the floor. You don't apologise like you usually do. You can't.

Not when the words stick to your throat. When your cheeks are wet without you even noticing. When all you want is to get out.

Out. Away.

That's when Chris sees you. Hands trembling. Eyes wide. Breathing not quite right. He knows instantly. Knows you.

The blonde beside him is still talking, but he's already moving towards you. His steps aren't lazy anymore. They're quick. Calculated, his vision tunnelled around you.

You're half gone by the time he reaches you, sunk down onto the floor in a dark hallway. Your knees are pulled to your chest, hugging yourself. You can taste the salt of your tears, hear the pounding of your heart, and your mind staying in overdrive.

You dont need to look up to know its him. You feel it.

He doesn't touch you, not at first, not sure if you'll allow it. He just kneels in front of you, hating how you look so small and broken.

"Sweetheart, I need you to breathe with me, okay?" His voice makes you jump a little, cutting throught the noise, his tone gentle but firm in all the right places.

You can't think. Can't breathe. But you try.

His calloused hands find your knees. Warm. Real. The only real thing in this whole house. He keeps talking, encouraging you to breathe with exaggerated breaths of his own.

He's not even sure why he's here, or if you even want him here. But he doesn't care. He can't just sit back and watch you break.

"In and out, sweetheart, that's it.. You're okay.. I promise." You dont know whether to believe him, but every fibre of your being is telling you to. You know him. You trust him.

It's Chris.

Your head lifts slightly, hazy eyes meeting his concerned ones. You study him, like the answers to all your worries are hidden somewhere in the depths of blue. You're sure they are.

He moves closer, still breathing slowly, still calm. Warm. Grounding. You try to match his pace, lip trembling as more tears threaten to spill.

"There you go.. keep breathing, Sweetheart. I got you, I got you." He whispers into your hair, his strong arms wrapped around you like a shield from the rest of the world.

Your fingers clutch his hoodie, holding him so tight it's like you're scared he might float away. But he's not going anywhere. Not now.

Not when you're alone, breaking in the hallway with puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks. Not ever.

You babble out half an apology, half gibberish, sobs cutting off every half-word. He shushes you before you can go too far.

"Hey, no. You've got nothing to be sorry for, understand?" His tone is firm, and you know he's serious, a stark contrast to his usual demeanour.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, you lip still wabbling, your breaths a little shallow. But you're better. A lot better.

"See?.. You're okay. You're safe with me." He reassures, gently wiping away the lingering tears on your cheeks with his thumbs, brushing them away like they were stray glitter—annoying, but still part of something beautiful.

You lean into his touch like a flower craving sunlight, eyes fluttering. But you believe him. You know you're safe with him.

Even if he's always the troublemaker or whatever else everyone paints him out to be. They don't know him. Not like you do.

"Thank you, Chris." You whisper, words barely above a breath. But that's enough for him.

He holds you like that until you're ready to let go, until your breathing returns to normal and you find yourvoice again.

Because caring for someone isn't about grand gestures or going above and beyond. It's about being there, showing up when it matters.

And Chris?

He'll always show up. Every time.

𝑩𝒂𝒅𝑩𝒐𝒚! 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

⊹˚⋆ 𝐒𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰⋆˚⊹

⤷ 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬.

The summer breeze drifts through the gap in your window, a small shiver rolling down your spine. You're tucked up in bed, the pink sheets pooling around your waist as you hunch over the book you're reading.

The lamp on your bedside cabinet glows a warm orange, and for just a moment, you feel relaxed. No responsibilities. No one is expecting anything from you. Just you, your father asleep down the hall, and a book you can escape into.

Thud.

A hushed, "Motherfuck-"

Followed by a few other unusual sounds from outside catches your attention faster than the speed of light.

Your eyes snap up, and your book snaps shut as you listen, now on full, high-alert. Quietly, you get up from your bed, your feet padding against the floor as you step carefully towards your half-opened window, your heart so high in your throat that you're sure it's blocking your airway.

Before you even reach the window, there's someone tumbling through it, all clumsy and uncoordinated as you fight off the instinct to scream, your body going stiff for a moment as you watch with wide eyes and the survival instincts of a curtain.

Luckily, your house is not actually being broken into, and your life is definitely not in danger.

It's just him.

Chris Sturniolo.

He practically rolls through your window. One foot tangled in the curtain, his hand bracing his fall as he curses the whole way and making probably the most sound he can.

"Chris? Seriously? What are you doing?" You whisper harshly, the familiar stench of pot clinging to the fabric of his clothes. Walking over to your window, you shut it quietly, taking a moment to allow your heartbeat to return to normal.

He sits up, his smirk still cocky, acting like he hadn't just fallen through your window face-first, "Hello to you too, sweetheart." He murmurs, sitting up and leaning back onto his hands, his eyes trained on you.

"Wha- why are you even here, in the middle of the night. Are you trying to get me in-" The words stick to your throat as your eyes land on him, looking a little rougher then usual. There's already a bruise forming on his cheekbone, a large cut above his eyebrow and dried blood clinging to the skin beneath his nose.

"What happened to you, Chris? Why are you- what-" You trip over your words, still trying to be quiet but full of concern.

He just laughs like he doesn't look like he just came out of a street fight. He stands up, brushing off his faded shirt, "Sweetheart, I'm fine.. Just a few guys who.. who—"

"Who what? Beat you up? Jumped you? God, Chris, you're literally still bleeding." The words aren't meant to be scolding because for some reason you're not ready to admit, you're worried. You care.

Before he can react, you're stood in front of him, hands cradling his face with gentleness he's not used to. He hesitates for a moment, letting out a hitched breath. "I'm fine. Stop worrying so much." He mutters, noticing the concern swimming in your eyes, so much of it he could drown. He wraps his hands around your wrists, not moving them. Almost like he's holding you there, silently pleading with you not to let go.

You're not convinced, his tough persona not fooling you. It never did. "No, Chris.. this isn't fine. You're not fine." You insist, eyes dropping to his bruised knuckles, littered with cuts and half-dried blood. "Jus'— Just let me clean you up.. please?"

He can't say no. Not when you're the first person to show this much concern, the first person who truly cares if his cuts got infected or if the wounds would heal.

That's why he's now sat on the counter in your bathroom, back against the mirror as he mutters something about 'not needing help'. You've already brought out the first ait kit, playing nurse as you stand between his legs like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Just stay still.. it's gonna sting a little." You warn quietly, bringing the antiseptic soaked cotton ball to the cut just above his eyebrow, gently dabbing over the dried blood and smudges of dirt.

He winces a little, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth as he grips onto the counter like it's his lifeline, his body tensing up slightly, "Fuck- sweetheart, that hurts."

You stop your movements for a second, the cotton ball hovering over his skin as you watch him, "Sorry, sorry.. I didn't mean to," You murmur, giving him a sympathetic look before gently going back to cleaning up his cut.

"S'fine." Is all he says, his eyes dropped to the floor, body still slightly stiff. The silence between you stretches, saved for the occasional hitch of Chris's breath whenever you apply a little too much pressure.

"What even happened?" You whisper, your eyes meeting his for a split second. You're not entirely sure you want the answer, but you are sure he's not going to give it to you anyway.

"Nothing.. it's nothing." You know he's lying, his eyes are downcast and his shoulders are tight. You know the type of trouble Chris gets into, you know what he does when he's left to his own devices. He's cocky, he's arrogant, and his mouth gets him into more trouble than he's ready to admit.

"Doesn't look like nothing." You hum, words quiet, but the worry screaming louder than you ever could. He doesn't say anything after that, just lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

You decide not to push anymore, there's no point. Chris isn't the type of person to give in when he gets pressed, not the type of person to open up under pressure. So you stay quiet, taking a small step closer to him. Your hand meets his jaw, fingers warm and grounding. Real. You hold his face with gentleness he's not sure he's ever going to be able to reciprocate, but he lets it happen anyway.

You don't even notice how close you are until you feel his breath on your lips. Uneven. Unsteady waves of warmth. Your eyes meet his, your hands still for a moment. Something in the air around you shifts, the atmosphere crackling with unspoken feelings, questions and everything in between.

You swear you're hallucinating when you see him lean forward, but you know you're not when it happens a second time.

"Uh- well, almost done, just.. just stay still a little longer." The tension fizzles out and you feel your chest tighten with that familiar ache. He leans back slightly at your words, his eyes gleaming with something akin to what looked like disappointment.

But he nods, letting out a breath he didn't even remember holding. Your hand still lingers on his jaw, but not so much holding anymore. You tell yourself it's to keep him still, but I think you both know it's not. Something about his warm skin under your fingertips makes your stomach flutter in a way you know it's not supposed to. Not with him.

"Just.. promise me this won't happen again, Chris." The words are barely above a breath, your heartbeat alone was almost louder. You don't look him in the eye this time, just focusing on cleaning him up while trying to ignore the warmth settling in the pit of your stomach, "Or at least you'll come to me again when it does."

He blinks at you, not expecting you to actually want to be the one to help him, the one to patch up his regret and bad decisions. But here you were, and here you'll always be. "Yeah.. you'll be my nurse from now on." He chuckles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and the walls of humor and deflect crumble around the edges.

The edge of your lips lift, not a smile yet, but close. And in the solidarity of the bathroom, the soft lights, the steady breathing and the smell of antiseptic, your book waits on your bedside cabinet, and you've found yourself in a story you never expected.

𝑩𝒂𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒚! 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

⊹˚⋆ 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 ⋆˚⊹

You grew up in this town. You know this town. It's the type of small town where streetlamps hum and everyone knows each others business before breakfast. Everyone knows each other by name. It's how it's always been, and it'll always be. It's the safest town, hidden in the depths of Boston.

But now, as you walk through the dark, familiar streets, everything feels too quiet, yet too loud all at once. Your eyes dart around, like you're waiting for something, or someone, to jump out at any moment. The sound of your shoes against the concrete mixes with the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, and all you want to do is make it home tonight.

You shiver slightly as you turn the corner to the old gas station, your skirt not doing much to keep you warm. The air bites, sharp with cut grass and smoke. And that's when you see him.

Chris Sturniolo.

Leant against his old, beaten up truck, a cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips. Of course you know him. Everyone knows him, but not because of honor roll lists, it's because of incident reports. You hold your breath as you walk past, not daring to look twice, just hoping you'd go unnoticed.

But of course, that never happens. Life never goes how you want it to.

Your breath catches in your throat as you hear his voice, his cigarette now held between his fingers, "Careful, walkin' down here at this time of night could be dangerous." He warns, but the grin on his face says he doesn't really care, and you both know nothing serious has happened in this town for years.

Your eyes slide over to his after a moment, giving him a tight, and slightly awkward smile, "I'm fine, thank you." The words are barely a murmur as you nod, continuing to walk but at a slower pace now—you're not sure why.. maybe curiosity.

He notices, raising an eyebrow as he takes another drag of his cigarette, "You know, that's what all the girls in the horror movies say before—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head with a smirk as he watches you roll your eyes. He can already tell you're done with him.

You turn to him, blinking at him as he stands there, all ego and cocky charm. "This isn't a horror movie, though.. and I doubt you're gonna do anything." You try to sound confident, but given his track record, you're not so sure.

"Maybe. But you can never be too careful." He hums, exhaling a cloud of smoke before tossing his cigarette butt on the floor and snuffing it out with his worn-in converse.

You look at him with poorly hidden distain written all over your features, eyes slightly narrowed as you think of what to say next. You click your tongue, eyes drifting around the empty, dark streets. "Why are you sitting at a gas station.. by yourself.. in the dark?" You ask, tilting your head slightly.

That's when his smirk faulters, and he looks down for just a second. "Tires gone flat and uh.. was waitin' for some help." And suddenly you see it. He's not looking for trouble tonight. He's not out to stir chaos. He just needs help.

And before you can stop yourself, you're already talking, rocking back on your heels once. "Oh. Well.. I can grab the jack from my dad's garage—if you want. It's just up the street." You don't know why you've offered, or what possessed you to want to help the one person in town who doesn't help anyone else. But you did.

He raises his brows like he's been offered gold, an amused scoff falling from his lips. "You, helping me? Colour me surprised." He leans against his truck, still smiling, and still smelling distinctly of pot and bad decisions.

You shake your head, the corners of you lips lifting slightly. Not a smile, but close. "Don't make me regret it." The words are muttered, tainted with what sounded like amusement. But maybe Chris was just imagining that part.

Because he's heard all about you— everyone has.

You're known for being the type of girl to go out of her way to help people. The girl who volunteers for everything. The girl who feeds the stray cats behind the school dumpsters. You're that girl.

He doesn't say anything after that, just nods as you walk away, and for the first time, Chris is watching someone else leave.

It's not long before you return, jack in hand and steps just as light as when you left. "Wow. You actually came back." He remarks, his tone suggesting you're the unreliable one. Maybe he's projecting.

"Why wouldn't I?" Neither of you are sure you actually want the answer to that questions. There's a million reasons why you should've left him here, never spoke to him at all. But that wasn't your style.

He just shrugs as you hand him the jack, your fingers brushing for just a millisecond, but that was enough. Maybe too much. Because that alone sends sparks through your body, the warmth of his skin engraved into yours. You're sure he did it on purpose.

The silence stretches, thick in the air, heavy on your shoulders and you're not quite sure what to do with yourself. Clearing your throat, you take a step back, "Well— uhm, good luck with your truck, or whatever."

He chuckles, eyes glued to you, your every movement, "Thanks... and uh, next time you walk home this late, let the troublemaker tag along. Just in case, you know." His smirk is softer now, almost slipping into something else—something you're not ready to name.

Your lips part for a moment, but the words die on your tongue. You just nod, because for reasons you can't seem to explain, you don't say no.

𝐀𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⤷𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑨𝑼 𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝑭𝑾 !

➪ 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨..

➪ 𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬' 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨..

➪ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝..

➪ 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬..

➪ 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐭..

➪ 𝐒𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰..

➪ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲..

➪ 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐥.

𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 ! 𝐱 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 ! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➪ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

➪ 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝑩𝒂𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒚! 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

⊹˚⋆ 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⋆˚⊹

𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅! 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕.. 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

𝑨 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒃 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 @bernardskissmarks. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆!

❥︎ 𝐻𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑! 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑡, 𝑤𝒉𝑜... 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

The room is quiet, the air light and dusted with the scent of morning. A gentle Summer breeze drifts through the room, causing the curtains to lift, small trickles of sun sneaking through the gap.

The house is quiet, saved for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the steady pace of sleeping breaths. Matt stirs slightly, his arm blinding searching for you. It find itself around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him as he tucks you into his side, like he's shielding his wife away from the world.

You turn, taking a breath as you snuggle into his bare chest, seeking out all the warmth he has to give, barely even cracking an eye open.

But as you feel Matt's lips brush over your forehead, your eyelids flutter and you lean into him, savouring the affection. His grip on you tightens, and for a moment he doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to.

As you tilt your head up, your lips find the base of his neck, peppering an array of lazy, open-mouthed kisses along his skin. That alone causes his lips to quirk up, the feeling of your kisses is something he'd never grow tired of.

He pulls his head back just enough to see you, his eyes barely even open, but enough so that he can admire your beauty, even on mornings like these.

"Morning, wifey.." He rasps, voice thick with sleep and love. He called you that the morning after the wedding, and he's done it every morning since.

You can't help but giggle, still in disbelief that you've actually married this man. "Morning, hubby." You reply, just as sleepily. But neither of you care.

Not as you shuffle closer, and the time ticks by. He leans in to kiss your temple, the action lingering. There's no rush. No pressure. Work can wait a little longer, his wife can't, and it'll always be like that when waking up next to you.

❥︎ 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅! 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑤𝒉𝑜... 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

You're sat on the counter, legs bare, a hoodie that's far too big for you swallowing your frame as you steal the chopped veg on the cutting board, smiling like you're getting away with something.

The kitchen is warm, quiet, saved for your occasional laugh and his scolding for eating all the food. It smells like comfort, and a mix of garlic and butter fills the air around you.

"Y'know, you keep stealing all that and I'm gonna have nothing left to cook." He teases, giving you a sidelong glance as you just continue to giggle. He tries to be mad, pursing his lips to bite back the smile that threatens to show. It doesn't work. Never does.

He can't be mad at his wife. Not when your all cute, perched on the counter in his hoodie. Not ever.

❥︎ 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅! 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑤𝒉𝑜... 𝐴𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝒉𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝒉𝑖𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

He went to the store. It was supposed to be a usual run of something silly, like milk for his coffee, or some butter to put on his toast.

But as you were sat on the couch, snug under a blanket, he bursts through the door like he's won the lottery, all smiley and hiding something behind his back. You look at him for a moment, eyes full of suspicion and amusement.

"What's goin' on?.. Was the milk on sale?" You ask, raising a brow at him with a small smile as you sit up a little.

He just laughs, shaking his head as he pulls out the cutest bunny plush from behind his back, holding it out to you like it something sacred, her ear a little floppy, and her eyes a little too far apart. But to you, it was perfect.

Gasping with bright eyes, you take it from him without hesitation. He's always remembered, always noticed everything about you. Like how you have a collection of plushies that you insisted on bringing into the new house. Like how you love anything soft. He remembers that bunnies are your favourite animals.

He carries it all so silently, everywhere he goes. Even if that place is just Target.

And later on, as he goes to make his coffee, he remembers he never even picked up the milk. But it was worth it. Always will be.

❥︎ 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅! 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑤𝒉𝑜... 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑒.

You're both out at dinner to celebrate your marriage. Somewhere quiet, but relatively fancy. You're glowing, cheeks hurting from laughing and stomach fluttering at every compliment or sweet thing he's said. Your dress is beautiful, and it's no wonder Matt can't take his eyes off you.

You swear you're full, the shared dessert between you practically finished, but not quite. Matt leans forward slightly, still smiling and still utterly admiring you.

"There's one bite left.." He hums, raising his eyebrow at you as he scoops the last on his spoon. You sigh, not because you're annoyed, because you know that he just wont eat it. It's yours, and you both know it.

"Yeah, and why don't you have it?"

He looks at you like you've just offended his whole bloodline, like if this one tradition is broken, he'll fall apart. "Never." He mutters, holding the spoon out to you, urging you to just eat it.

You do. You always do. And that'll be one thing that'll never change.

𝑇𝒉𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑚𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑜.. 𝑖 𝒉𝑎𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒!!

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ☏︎... @nialler-lover @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @bernardsbendystraws @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb @aaliyah-sturns @sturniolobananas1

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒑... 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲.. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑯𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒘𝒂𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒑 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏.

It was late, the sun had set hours ago, the city outside your apartment was alive, the faint sound of traffic, voices and life buzzing outside your window. But you and Chris were too in love to care.

You were sat on the bathroom counter, his hoodie swallowing you whole and hiding your hands under the fabric, your fuzzy socks kicking the cabinet below with every absentminded swing of your bare legs. The room carried the smell of coconut and vanilla, a mix of the scented candles you had lit and the skincare Chris was currently helping you apply.

He was stood shirtless between your legs, both of you wearing sleepy smiles and the exhaustion of the day that had caught up. Chris had always loved helping you with any task. Even the simplest of ones, like putting on your nightly skincare.

After many attempts of trying to get you to agree to let him help, you finally did. Maybe it was because you were too tired. Or maybe it was because he just smiled the right way, held your waist and used the softest voice as he asked. Probably that.

So now, you're both tired, giggly messes as he smears moisturiser on your face, giving you a running commentary on everything he does as he asks questions you're sure he knows the answers to. You swear he just likes hearing you talk. "Is it supposed to be this cold?" He mutters, mostly to himself rather than you.

You nod, eyes still shut because even though he's trying his best, he still gets it everywhere he's not supposed to. Thought that counts though, right?

"Yes, Chris, it's supposed to be cold." You reply, smiling gently as you open your eyes again, meeting his confused, and very adorable expression.

"I don't know why you do this every night.. what does half of this shit even even do?" He asks, turning his attention to the small collection of serums, moisturisers, toners, eyes creams - the list goes on - that sat on the counter next to the sink.

You giggle softly, amused by how little knowledge he has, "It's good for my skin, Chris.. keeps me looking young.. you should try it." You tease, and he lets out a mix between a scoff and chuckle, because even when you're teasing him, he can't be mad. He could never be mad.

"You callin' me old, or what?" He raises a brow, trying to bite back the smile threatening to settle on his lips. But he fails. Always does.

You shrug, tilting your head slightly, "I'm just saying.. a little retinol wouldn't go amiss." You mutter sarcastically, letting out another chuckle as he playfully swats your thigh, his own laugh getting lost in the air.

You're sure he doesn't even know what that is, but his dramatic self just has to have a reaction. "Okay.. rude. I'm helpin' you here.. just sit there and look pretty while I rub chemicals onto your face."

You roll your eyes, but does as he says as your cheeks start burning, because even after all this time, hearing Chris call you pretty - even if it's just teasing, still affects you as much as it did the first time. He notices. Of course he does, he notices everything. Like how your eyes light up when someone brings up something you like, how you pout when he stops scratching your back at night, how you always smile when he enters the room. He notices. Always, but always silently.

He picks up your cherry lip balm, opening the small tin and carefully applying some to the plush skin of your lips. He's gentle, probably more gentle than he's ever been before. "Ooo.. cherry," He mutters, pretending to be super interested, "Lemme taste."

And before you can react, he's captured your lips with his own, still smiling as you giggle into his mouth, arms automatically wrapping around his neck like the were meant to be there. They are. They always will be.

Because he'll always be there to mess up your skincare routine.

And you'll always let him.

𝑂𝑘𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡𝒉𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑜 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑠𝑜 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝒐 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡𝑦 𝐶𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘. 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝒉𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝒕𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑒, 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑠𝑘 ♡︎

𝑊𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒... 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑥𝑜𝑥𝑜

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡.. @nialler-lover @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @bernardsbendystraws @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb @aaliyah-sturns

𝑾𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖.. 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.. 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒔.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲.. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒅, 𝒆𝒙𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 — 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕, 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 — 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔.

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲.. @nialler-lover

It was one of those ugly days.

One that felt too heavy — too gross.

Looking in the mirror felt like a punishment — your hair was not on your side, and the breakouts on your skin had come to haunt you. All your favourite clothes were in the laundry, and worst of all?

You started your period.

Matt was at work, but you? You were moping around the apartment like a sloth on a bad day. Your cramps were attacking your uterus like it had personally insulted them, your head was pounding, and the blanket you had wrapped around your shoulders was trailing behind you like a sad excuse for a cape — though, you were a superhero for handling all of this.

Your lips were etched into a pout as you stopped in front of the freezer, one hand grasping the pink, fluffy, yet slightly worn out blanket, while the other dug around for that certain tub of ice-cream you knew you had.

It wasn't there either.

Not behind the frozen peas. Not under the half-empty bag of fries. Nowhere.

That was the last straw. Tears immediately started to pool in your eyes as you shut the freezer door with probably much more force than necessary, your tears now leaving a salty trail of heartbreak on your cheeks. Some may call you dramatic, you call yourself devistated.

You trudged back over to your shared bedroom with Matt, grabbing your phone as you flopped onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes, a soft whine falling from your lips as you sent him a message.

SOS. Need Ice cream.

Cuddles too.

And maybe some kisses.

Matt would never say no to you. He could be on the battlefield, and one text from you? He's on his way.

Luckily for him - mostly you - he was just finishing work as the message popped up on his phone. He knew what this meant. He loved receiving this message, feeling a sense of satisfaction that he is the one who could comfort you, kiss you, bring you ice cream. He loved it.

Before long, he arrived home with painkillers, ice cream, pads, chocolate, and a new plushie just for you. After kicking his shoes off, he walked into the bedroom to find you curled up on the bed, wrapped in a million blankets and looking like a sad little burrito. He could've cried. Almost did. The room smelled of vanilla and sadness, your signature scent whenever you were on your period.

He approached the bed carefully, like you were some sort of skittish animal that would run away if he made any sudden moves. You probably would. Peeking an eye open as you heard him, you lifted your head from your blanket protection.

"Hey, baby.. you doin' alright under all that?" He asked softly, a hint of amusement in his tone as he offered you a small smile.

You were far from amused.

Huffing louder than at all needed, you sat up as the blankets pooled around your waist. "No, matter of fact, I'm not." You declared, voice a little whiny as you crossed your arms over your chest, only causing Matt to stifle a chuckle.

"It's not funny." It wasn't, and the look on your face showed that, your eyes narrowed, lips still jutted out into that adorable pout he could never resist. "Not only am I on my period, Matthew, I'm breaking out, my clothes don't fit me, or they're in the fucking laundry, and-" Your voice broke like you were about to have a breakdown. You probably were. "And I missed you."

Seeing you like this — cheeks blotchy, voice cracking, wrapped in that same ratty blanket you swore was your comfort cape made his chest squeeze in that way it always did when he realized just how much you trusted him with your worst days

He softened. Instantly. He was by your side in seconds, bags forgotten on the floor. They could wait for a moment. You couldn't. "Oh, my love.. it's gonna be okay.." He cooed, taking you in his arms, hand cradling the back of your head as you hid your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of home, safety and love.

You sniffled, small and almost lost against the warm skin of his neck, your arms wrapped so tightly around him it was obvious you never wanted him to leave. Your cramps still ached, head still pounded, and your tastebuds still craved ice cream. But being in Matt's arms made it all a little more bearable.

Eventually, he coaxed you under the covers, tucking the hot water bottle against your tummy like it was sacred. The room — lit only by the flicker of candles and the Tv — no longer smelled like vanilla and sadness, but now of comfort and something sweeter, warmer, and definitely Matt. His arms are wrapped tightly around you as a half-watched movie played in the background. An old one you've both seen hundreds of times, wrapped in the same position, in one another's closeness.

He tucks you in a little tighter into the covers, fingers gliding through your hair in the rhythmic motion he knows makes you melt, each brush of his fingertips further draining the tension in your body. The plushie he bought you is squished under your arm, being held as close as possible like it shields you from the pain. Maybe it does.

Matt's eyes drift down to you like they always do, his gaze a mix of amusement and softness. "Still mad about the ice cream?" He asks as if it's not obvious, as if he didn't walk in on you almost crying about it.

You groan, maybe a little too dramatically, your eyes closing for a moment like you're imagining it right in front of you. "Ugh.. I'm literally mourning it."

"I bought two tubs.. just for you." He whispers like it's a love confession, his smile widening slightly as he leans down to press a lingering kiss on your temple. It's not rushed. It's not hurried. Nothing is.

You giggle at his words, leaning into his kiss as you shuffle closer to him, your body tucked into the side of his like you were trying to hide from the rest of the world, because maybe you were. And that's okay. Because even on your ugly days, emotional days, period days, you'll always have Matt to protect you — to comfort you and bring you ice cream.

And that's all you'll ever need.

𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑼𝒔, 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆... 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲.. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒍 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅.

You were supposed to go out, told yourself you had to. After cancelling and bailing on so many plans recently, you promised yourself you'd go.

Deep down, you knew you wouldn't. Your friends night out could wait — the chaos, the pointless drinking and the tight dresses could definitely wait. Chris couldn't.

The rain taps gently against the window, soft and steady, like a background song written just for the two of you. The city outside hums with traffic and bad decisions, blurred behind foggy glass, but in your little apartment — lit only by the amber glow of string lights and the TV's quiet flicker — time slows.

A blanket is draped messily across the both of you, half slipping off the couch, half keeping you warm. You've been curled up there for hours, a movie forgotten in the distance, fading into white noise as the both of you lose yourselves in the warmth of one another. Voices soft, touches even softer. The smell of pumpkin spice and something subtly Chris drifts through the room, the scent alone like a gentle lullaby.

You're lying sideways now, head tucked into the crook of his neck, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his shirt. He hasn't moved much. Doesn't need to. Not when you're here. One hand rests on your back, thumb moving in slow, reassuring circles against your spine as you giggle about stupid things, whispering about everything and nothing all at once.

"I was supposed to go out tonight." You murmur against his shoulder, as if he doesn't know, like he's not the one who convinced you to stay in to watch movies and make pancakes like teenagers.

"I know." He hums, a small smile settling on his lips as his hand stills, his eyes meeting yours in the warm glow of the room. "I'm glad you didn't... I think having you in my sweatpants and making pancakes is definitely better." He chuckles, giving your side a playful squeeze.

You giggle again, the kind that makes your nose-scrunch in the way he loves most. His eyes show it, how much he adores you — your smile, how your eyes glimmer when you laugh. He could watch you all day. He does.

"We haven't even made pancakes yet," You remind him, nudging him with your foot as you roll your eyes. Though you still don't make any attempt to move. The pancakes can wait for a bit, the warmth of Chris' embrace will always be better.

He shrugs, eyes drifting back over to the Tv — he's not even sure what you're watching anymore, nor does he care. Neither of you do. "Yeah.. well, midnight pancakes hit harder anyway. And we've got all night, haven't we?" He sighs, holding you a little tighter, as if to emphasise his point. He's not going anywhere, and neither is this night.

Humming in response, you tuck your face back into the curve of his neck like it's the safest place in the world — and to you, it is. Chris turns, planting a kiss on your shoulder, slow and lingering. There's no rush. No pressure. Just the warmth and closeness of two bodies who can't live without each other.

Outside, the rain continues.

Inside, nothings missing.

𝑻𝒐𝒐 𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏... 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲.. 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓. 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒊𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒆.

The house is quiet, the sun set hours ago, and your heart sank with it. Another night left alone. No text. No call. Nothing.

You get it, at least you try to get it. Matt works late, there's nothing you can do.

But when you sit at the empty table, the food going cold, the candles burning lower, you feel it in your chest. The sickening, lonely feeling that's been simmering below the surface. Simmering under nights left to watch the movie by yourself, under what used to be Matt's touch was now a blanket that barely even compensated.

And when you're getting ready for bed, candles blown out, the table abandoned, you hear him come home.

The door opens with a creak, Matt visibly winces as he sees the set table with both plates full. He winces once again as he realizes the time. It's past midnight again.

He doesn't call out, doesn't need to. You're probably asleep, and that's how it's been for the past few weeks. He works late, you go to bed alone, in the cold, empty sheets that still reek of his cologne and subtle heartbreak.

He comes into the room, expecting you to be curled up in bed. You're not. The lamp is on, the scent of vanilla and loneliness drifting through the air as he spots you awake, sitting at your vanity as you tie your hair up.

He stops in the doorway, dropping his bag quietly as he clears his throat. "Hey.." He says carefully, never taking his eyes off you. "You didn't have to wait up."

"I didn't." You reply. You dont even look at him through the mirror.

Ouch.

He tries to smile, tries to smooth it over as if the lift of his lips will lift your heart, as if it will make the pain go away. It doesn't.

"Rough day?"

You laugh bitterly, the sound short and dry as you shake your head. "Something like that."

His eyebrows furrow, his arms crossing over his chest like you're the one who misses dinner, like its you who's left him night after night. "What's going on with you?" He asks, as if the answer isn't obvious.

A beat of silence passes as you decide whether to reply, if you should be the one to leave him questioning this time.

You sigh, the breath heavy and filled with the weight on your shoulders. "You missed dinner. Again." You say shortly, your jaw tightening as your eyes drop down.

"I told you.. the project-"

"I know." You snap, head turning to the side like you've been struck. And maybe you have. Struck by the realisation that maybe his work means more. "You always tell me. Every time."

He flinches. The truth lands harder than your words ever could. His excuses have worn out, just as you have. "I'm doing my best here. You know that, don't you?" His tone turns defensive. And that's when you meet his eyes, your expression making his chest tighten. It's not anger. It's worse. It's disappointment.

"You say that like I should be grateful you're coming home at all." Maybe you should be.

"Don't do that." He scoffs, shaking his head again as he runs a hand over his face, shoulders heavy, chest tight. "Don't make me out to be the bad guy."

You stand up, turning to face him, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and barely concealed hurt. "I'm not making anything. I'm just—" Your voice cracks, and you take another breath, trying to push down the growing lump in your throat. "I sat at that table with candles burning down for three hours. You didn't even text."

He swallows hard, "I didn't mean to-"

"That's the problem. You never mean to. But I keep ending up alone anyway." Your voice wavers as the air goes still.

He takes a step forward, not sure if he should reach out, not sure if his touch will soothe you like it used to.

"I wait for you." You whisper, eyebrows furrowed slightly, "Every night. I wait, and I wait and eventually... I stop. Because if I don't, it just hurts more."

You sit back down like the fight has drained out of you before it's really even started.

The air is charged, thick with regret, distance, and the breaths of two people who swore they couldn't breathe without each other.

Matt swallows again, his defences down, "I didn't... I didnt realize." He mutters, like the problem wasn't staring him right in the face, like he hadn't come home to you sleeping with tear stains on your cheeks, dinner gone cold on the table. Maybe he didn't want to realise.

You laugh again, the sound leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. "That much is obvious."

And that's all you say. Even as you stand back up, steps light but heart and shoulders undeniably heavy, you stay silent.

You don't let him talk again either, eyes avoiding his as you walk out of your shared room - the room that feels more like one shared with yourself. The door shuts quietly behind you. You don't slam it. Don't need to.

And that night, like any other night, tears spill down your cheeks as you wait for sleep to relieve you of the pain. Only this time, you're on the couch, and Matt's actually home.

He doesn't follow you down, not once checking on you.

He never does.

𝑂𝑘𝑎𝑦 𝑠𝑜 𝐼 𝑀𝐴𝑌 𝒉𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡𝒉𝑑𝑎𝑦... 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡𝑦 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑐 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑!

𝐿𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒... 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑥𝑜𝑥𝑜

𝘵𝘢𝘨s.. @babysweetheartmelia

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