C’s corner: Hi my loves, hope you’re having a lovely weekend. So yesterday was Wyatt Russell’s birthday, but I couldn’t post anything because… life 🫠 But here’s a little soft drabble I whipped up instead of cleaning. 🫣 I also have a True Brandywire little smut drabble that might make an appearance tomorrow… for now, enjoy my loves. 🫶🏽✨
"You’re pouting,” you announced from the kitchen, setting two mugs of coffee on the counter.
“You sighed loud enough for the neighbors to file a noise complaint.”
John Walker looked up from where he’d sprawled across the couch, all broad shoulders and dramatic despair. His gray t-shirt stretched across his chest as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
You blinked. Then laughed.
He looked personally offended. "I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You walked over, nudging one of his knees with yours. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m a forty year old man.”
“You could be dating someone younger.”
“But instead,” you continued, climbing onto the couch beside him, “I’m dating the world’s most decorated professional overthinker.”
His lips twitched despite himself. "It isn’t funny.”
You leaned in dramatically, squinting at his face. "Hm.”
“I think that’s called smiling.”
He huffed. "I’ve got gray hair.”
You reached up, threading your fingers through the short blond strands at his temple.
“They make you look distinguished.”
“They make me look like somebody’s dad.”
You grinned. "I fail to see the problem.”
He groaned, dropping his head against the back of the couch. "You deserve somebody your age.”
“I have somebody my age.”
“I do.” Your voice softened. "So listen to me.”
He finally met your eyes.
“You aren’t getting older despite everything you’ve survived.”
You rested your forehead against his.
“You’re getting older because you survived.”
His shoulders loosened just enough.
“You’ve lived through things that would’ve broken most people.” You brushed your thumb across the faint line near his eyebrow. “These?”
You traced another near the corner of his eye. "They’re proof you laughed.”
Your fingers drifted over the scar along his jaw. "These are proof you kept going.”
“I don’t look twenty five anymore.”
That earned a startled laugh.
“I don’t want twenty five.”
“I want this.” You cupped his face with both hands. "I want the man who knows when I’m pretending I’m fine.”
A kiss landed on his forehead.
“The man who makes coffee every morning even though he always forgets how much sugar I like.”
“The man who checks every door twice before bed.”
“The man who somehow keeps getting more handsome every year.”
His cheeks flushed. "You're so full of it.”
“You have terrible taste.”
“I have excellent taste.”
Your nose brushed his. "You’re like fine wine, John.”
He chuckled quietly. "I’ve never even liked wine.”
“Good.” You smiled. "More for me.”
He shook his head. "You really don’t think forty’s... too old?”
You stared at him like he’d asked if the sky was green. "I think forty looks unbelievably good on you.”
He searched your face for any hint you were teasing. He found none.
Instead, he found you smiling at him with the kind of certainty that made his chest ache.
His hand slid around your waist. "You know..."
“I was planning on continuing to mope.”
“But then you started complimenting me.”
He kissed you before you could reply. Slowly. Warmly. Like he was relearning something he’d almost forgotten.
You smiled into it. "So that’s your strategy?”
You laughed against his mouth. "That’s somehow worse.”
He kissed you again, longer this time.
His hands settled at your waist while yours found the back of his neck, fingers disappearing into the soft hair there.
When he finally pulled back, a little breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. "I still can’t believe you chose me.”
“I’ll keep choosing you.”
“Especially when you’re fifty.”
“I’ll probably be causing trouble right beside you.”
His grin returned, full and bright this time.
“There he is,” you whispered.
He rolled his eyes so dramatically you thought they might disappear. "I knew it.”
“You walked into that one.”
He leaned in for another kiss, stealing it with a satisfied hum.
You smiled into it, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you murmured just loudly enough for only him to hear.
You pulled back with the most innocent smile you could manage. "My DILF.”
His ears immediately turned pink. "You are never saying that again.”
“So... not your favorite nickname?”
He buried his face in your shoulder, laughing so hard the couch shook beneath both of you.
“And yet..." You kissed his cheek. "...I’m your worst.”
He sighed, wrapped his arms around you a little tighter, and muttered into your hair with all the fond resignation in the world.
“Yeah. My favorite menace.”
