≈ the phoster apartment, 28th july 2024. with @just-foster
Ever since Phoebe had been told about her acceptance to the writer’s retreat, she had both been excited and nervous, flip-flopping between the two emotions, as she packed, panicked and made plans throughout the week. It was suddenly Sunday night before she could even comprehend the days; her small roller-case out near the front door, her meticulous packing list (written out about fifty times) on the coffee table, the last-minute items she wouldn’t be able to add until the morning highlighted with her favorite pink highlighter. She herself was freshly showered, damp hair air-drying with help from the open window in the bedroom, sprawled on the bed in one of Foster’s old T-Shirts, completely forgoing her usual little short-shorts due to the sticky heat.
She was reading over one of the many informational PDFs sent her way, engrossed in the itinerary and ‘retreat’ essentials, that she had been barely aware of Foster’s presence as he moved around the room, completing his nightly routine. In fact, she only really acknowledged him when she felt the bed dip and a gentle peck on the back of her shoulder. “Hey, baby.” She greeted in a murmur, finally tearing her eyes away from her screen to peek over at him. “I know, I know, it’s late. Big day tomorrow, blah blah blah. I just wanna make sure I’m not missing anything.”