#stefanwolfe

[daphxgreengrass]

( ✉ → sms ) even when i’m durnk ic ant sotp thinking about oyu - Stefan

ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ 02:47

ᴅᴇʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ Daphne: I can’t stop thinking about you either.Daphne: you should go bed, stefan.

[daphxgreengrass]

💏+🍪 (not sorry) - Stefan

There’s a soft sort of giddiness in her eyes and her mind is already nagging, clawing at the back of her head, demanding attention. She tries to ignore it as her gaze flutters up from his hands. He seems to be trying to pull something off with the dough, assuring that he knows what he’s doing and she nibbles upon her lesser lip, the movement a clear indication that she’s trying to cover up the curve to her mouth, shaking her head softly. The small phrase that seems to always slip off her tongue when she’s with him is on the tip, but her mind screeches and cries and her insecurities seem to refrain her from uttering them out. - You’re an idiot Stefan Wolfe. - When he seems to fail in his attempt, she grins slightly and reaches over, small delicate fingers hovering in the air. “Uhm.. I don’t t-think that’s how you make cookies..” Daphne mutters, slowly taking the wooden spoon within her own grasp.

When he’d asked her over she’d been lightly surprised but had gone along with him anyways. All the while just faintly bantering with him about his amazing cookie baking skills and the fact that he’d outdo her on decorating them. Her mind screeching every time she tried to attempt to be playful– to be something. And it still is; The little voice inside her head raving on, pointing out all the little factors that she could be doing wrong, that he would never be interested in someone like her, that he was only doing this out of pity. And she crumbles slightly, a soft aching itch tingling on her finger tips as she grasps the wood tighter, stirring, trailing off with her thoughts. But Stefan seems to be saying something and she’s pulled from her reverie, a tender smile plastering across her features.

It’s only later when there seems to be smudges of flour across her cheeks and in his hair and they seem to be all out of ingredients, most of them scattered over the counter and the floor and themselves, and she’s beaming with only the softest hum of her insecurities still nagging, the remaining untouched and finished cookies in the oven, that they seem to breathe. And it’s not until he’s grinning that sheepish stupid smile of his, stopping in the middle of his sentence and pointing upwards, that she realises they have moved and she’s standing directly under it. With a start, her dark hues flutter to the ground and she nervously brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Her teeth sinking within the lesser of her lip as she shifts her weight. “Uhm..” Daphne stutters, glancing up at the lad timidly. Then, before her mind can tell her otherwise, she moves, tentatively. Her small fingers brushing against his chest as she leans up and there’s a soft, scarce peck to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Stefan.”