"hey babe, welcome home!" he was all smiles, standing in a kitchen that wasn't his, in an apron that he didn't own, making food with ingredients he didn't buy. he didn't even a shirt on his own back, so suffice to say this was as close to rock bottom as someone could get — shacking up with your situationship who hadn't quite kicked you to the curb after about a week of never leaving. he liked to think he was rocking the whole 'i can fix him' kind of vibe — maybe they were into it too? regardless, he doesn't plan to step on toes, especially when said toes could very well kick him out the door. "i'm cooking pasta — cause i'm part italian." he wasn't. "you want anything else?" / @sacredied












