jess mariano x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖📚˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff
wc: 0.8k
Jess Mariano knew exactly the kind of person you were when he started seeing you, so he’s not sure why he didn’t see this coming from a mile away. He just didn’t foresee it. You know what they say about not truly knowing your partner until you move in with them? He learned it the hard way.
Jess prides himself on his grungy, bookish aesthetic. Sparse shelves. Paperbacks stacked horizontally because he refuses to buy another bookcase. Mismatched mugs with chips in the rims. A couch that’s more “survived several depressive episodes” than “inviting.” Everything has a deliberate kind of carelessness to it.
And then there’s you.
You don’t move in all at once. You seep in.
At first it’s easy to ignore. A necklace on the bathroom windowsill because you took it off to wash your face and forgot it existed the second it left your body. A hair tie abandoned on the coffee table because you realised it was indenting you wrist. Your socks. Everywhere. Always one sock. Never the pair.
Jess notices. Of course he does. He notices everything. He just doesn’t say anything.
Then your books start appearing. Not replacing his—just… existing beside them. Romance paperbacks with cracked spines. Dog-eared poetry collections. Margins full of notes. He scoffs internally, but one night he catches himself reading a highlighted line while waiting for the kettle to boil.
Then one day — you spawn in with a pink beanbag.
Not a subtle pink. Not muted. Not “dusty rose” or whatever euphemism people use to soften the blow.
Pink. Loud. Unapologetic. Soft-looking in a way that feels illegal in his apartment.
He stares at it like it’s some kind of evil totem.
“No,” he says flatly. “Absolutely not.”
You blink at him. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean that thing is not living here.”
You plant your foot down immediately. Harder than he expects. “Yes it is.”
“It looks like a Pepto-Bismol tumor.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“It’s an eyesore.”
“It’s a chair, Jessica.”
You go back and forth until Jess does that thing where he runs a hand through his hair and exhales like the universe has a vendetta against him. He loses. Of course he loses. He always loses when you decide something belongs.
The beanbag stays.
He covers it with throw blankets so he doesn’t have to look at it. Tries to pretend it’s not there. But every single time you come back, you peel the blankets off with dramatic flair and curl into it with your current read like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And the worst part?
You look… right there. Too right.
Too at home.
One afternoon, he catches you circling it with your phone, crouching, standing on the couch, adjusting the light.
“What are you doing?” he asks, suspicious.
You don’t even look up. “Taking pictures.”
“For what.”
You pause, then shrug in a way that’s painfully casual. “I’m gonna put it on eBay.”
That makes him freeze.
Not because he hates the idea. He should love it. This is literally what he wanted. But something in your tone — soft, resigned, not fishing — makes his chest do something unpleasant.
“I don’t wanna commandeer your space,” you add, quieter. “If you really don’t like it, I can get rid of it. It’s fine.”
It is very much not fine.
“No,” he says immediately.
You look at him, surprised. “Jess, you hate it.”
He rubs his jaw, eyes darting away like he’s annoyed at himself. “Yeah, well. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He gestures vaguely at the apartment. The shelves. The couch. The chipped mugs. The way your stuff has threaded itself through his life without asking permission.
“It’s… yours,” he says. “It’s your thing.”
You wait.
He swallows. “It’s the thing that makes this place not just mine.”
He goes quiet for a moment, waiting for you to catch what he’s throwing.
“It makes it ours,” he finishes, barely above a mumble.
You don’t say anything. You just smile, slow and soft, and sink back into the beanbag like you belong there. Like you always have.
Later that night, Jess is half-asleep on the couch when he feels a presence settle near his feet. He cracks one eye open.
You’re in the pink beanbag beside his legs, knees tucked up, book balanced on your chest. Comfortable. Safe. Home.
He sighs, reaches for the blanket, and tosses it over both of you.
He still hates the beanbag.
But he’d lose his mind if it ever left.
