the domesticity of it all
A slice of life with him.
(Doing laundry & dishes with Xavier; Sylus picking you up after work and doing your skincare routine; grocery shopping with Caleb and cooking together; gardening with Rafayel; Zayne leaving sticky notes around his house for you when he's out, and carrying you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch.)
xavier, sylus, caleb, rafayel, zayne ♡ gn!reader
warnings: established relationship, not proofread, petnames ("sweetie" from sylus, "pips" from caleb), reader is mc but gender neutral, nonsexual intimacy (kissing, sleeping in the same bed)
notes: IM ON A GENERATIONAL WRITING RUN RN!!! Also sorry if there are tons of grammatical errors i wrote this maniacally with nothing but a keyboard and a dream
Doing laundry together, washing dishes—and it wouldn't be Xavier if there weren't a good nap thrown in the mix, of course!
"Xavier," you mumble, drowsy. "Xavier, I can't get up."
With his entire body splayed on top of yours, Xavier is, pun intended, out like a light. His mouth hangs slightly agape, the side of his face pressed against your collarbone.
"Xavier," you say again, trying to nudge him. "Xavier."
His eyes flutter open, half-lidded, as he stares at you with those soft-blue eyes of his, the glossiness of sleep layering his irises like glass. Through the panes, you can make out the tenderness of his pupils, dilating ever-so slightly, your figure carving a spot into its refracting light.
He closes his eyes again. You sigh.
"Xavier."
Nothing.
"Xavier."
Nothing.
"Jeremiah."
He's up.
Xavier's brows furrow, the ends of his lips curled downwards as he stares at you from above, eyes blown wide, arms encaging your figure beneath his, head tilted slightly to the side as he blinks once, twice, thrice.
"Why do you know that name?" he asks, bottom lip slowly jutting out the longer you take to respond.
"We met him at Philo."
"Do you know the names of all the men you meet?"
You laugh. Xavier's expression remains unmoved, his question entirely serious.
"That'd be impossible."
"... So, you've met a lot of other men."
"Yeah," you reply, "that's usually how it goes."
He slumps against your figure, relapsing, as his face digs into the curve of your neck and shoulder, head tilted to the side while trailing kisses around your skin, immovable when you laugh from the ticklish feeling.
"Xavier," you manage to say in between giggly breaths, "Xavier, I was joking."
From his spot, just a little below you, by the base of your neck, he looks up, head tilting, blinking owlishly in that feigned-ignorance-and-pathetic way of his.
"Were you?"
"Of course I was!"
He doesn't budge from his spot as your weighted blanket. Face returning to the crook of your shoulder once more, he just wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you even closer to him, limbs a messy tangle.
"Xavier,"—you prod him, but to no avail—"Xavier, we have to get up. Today is laundry day, remember?"
"Five more minutes," he mumbles, pressing you so close he might as well coalesce into you, "just five..."
He did not, in fact, take "just five minutes."
It was three hours.
But Xavier wastes no time when it comes to taking naps together—upon gathering all of your clothes, he's quick to suggest using the machine's washing time as an opportunity to get more sleep. You dismiss his idea, stating that you have dishes from last night's dinner to wash.
He gives you that look of his—soggy and all—before suggesting, again, to use the time after washing dishes, while the machine is working, to get some more sleep in. You agree. He beams.
Xavier's wardrobe has a running theme of pale colors. Sorting them is relatively easy, with most of his clothes in one pile, your occasional shirt sprinkled in, while the darker colors remain significantly smaller in number.
"What scent should we do this time?" Xavier asks, hand on his chin, surveying your detergent options with the meticulousness of a laundry master. You laugh, and tell him that they all smell good in the end. He nods, but he chooses the scent you've mentioned liking on mutliple occasions, knowing it's your favorite.
(Xavier also likes this scent—he's gotten multiple compliments for it, and once, while out shopping with you, an older woman noted how the two of you had the same fragrance to your clothes. Xavier nodded fervently at the observation, pleased.)
While the laundry is running, the two of you return to last night's dishes. After Xavier scrubs at the plates, you place them into the dishwasher, which, in reality, is just a glorified drying rack.
In between the clatter of glassware and the running of water is your voice, existing with Xavier for longer than it does in the air, your words excited as you recall an incident that happened recently at work.
When you smile, the rhythmic motion comes to a halt, and Xavier's attention parts from the plates to look at you, your figure etched into his pupils, tracing through to his soul, imprinted, fitting the silhouette from centuries ago.
"Is something wrong, Xavier?" you ask, noticing his gaze. He shakes his head.
He just blinks, once, twice, thrice; you really don't know, it seems. The light swept over your face, setting your skin ablaze, its brilliance irrevocable—How beautiful, is all he thinks. How beautiful and lovely and sublime.
(For a moment, he half-considered envying the light, its warmth kissing your skin so simply. Xavier has too many enemies, it seems. Lumiere, sunlight, Jeremiah...)
Later, your dryer sings its cycle completion with a jolly tune. While fetching your clothes, you notice a striking abundance of fluff stuffed throughout the creases of your clothes, your nose wrinkling with confusion as you furrow your brows.
"What's all this?" you mutter, piling all your things into the laundry basket, bundles of cotton falling forth from the dryer.
"Oh," Xavier remarks, hovering beside your shoulder, staring down at the mess. "Bunbun exploded."
"What?!"
Just as he predicted, Bunbun's remains fall from the dryer, its stitching undone as half of its cotton stuffing has been scattered throughout your clothes. Xavier reaches for its floppy face, stretching the malnourished plushie, satisfied.
"Well," you say, picking up the bits of fluff. "Let's feed it."
The two of you hunch over the laundry basket, sifting through your clothes to find each individual piece of fluff, stuffing it back into Bunbun. Now fully nourished, Bunbun stands proud (and round), its unstitched back held shut by Xavier's hand and a dream.
"I don't remember ever putting Bunbun in the laundry," you mutter, folding your clothes. "I thought its washing instructions said not to put it in the dryer..."
"Is that what it said?" Xavier remarks. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, noticing that his gaze is directed towards Bunbun's figure, menacing.
"Did you just try to sabatoge Bunbun, Xavier?"
He turns to you, blinking, his bottom lip jutted out slightly as he tilts his head.
"... No."
"You rejoiced when it exploded!"
"What if," he starts, the slightest hints of a smile tugging at the ends of his lips, his innocent expression shifting to reveal the hints of mischief, "what if I said it was a joke?"
"Are you still hung up on what I said this morning?" you reply, disbelieving.
His eyes don't meet yours.
Sylus picking you up after a long day of work, doing your skincare routine, removing your jewelry before going to sleep.
Rain is a cruel mistress; it seems that it only chooses to appear whenever you're working overtime.
Bracing yourself to weather the storm, you raise one measly hand up to cover the top of your head, the other shielding your bag under the fabric of your coat as you step outside the office, wincing slightly, a bright light reflecting the droplets of rain.
It's a car. A familiar one, at that. Squinting, you can make out the shape, its color, black, and a figure sitting in the driver's seat, the door swinging open, approaching you with such leisure, you half-wonder if it's only raining over you.
You look at Sylus, whose gaze has long-acquainted itself with yours. He tilts his head to the side, a smile—which more resembles a smirk—tugging at his lips, while he unravels the umbrella in his hand.
"You didn't think to use it for yourself?" you ask, the rain no longer meeting your skin, your figure now completely dry whilst Sylus's pearly hair drips with rainwater.
"Not at all," he replies, bemused.
"How'd you know I just finished my work?" you then query, Sylus's free hand reaching to open the passenger door, his head lowering slightly as he leans over your figure, putting your seatbelt on, rain still pelting at his skin and clothes.
"And if I told you it was my intuition?" he says, leaving no room for your response as he closes your door, finding his spot in the driver's seat soon after.
"I wouldn't believe it," you remark.
"Then, you can assume it was something else."
You deadpan. "Isn't that how it works?"
He spares you a smile, one hand on the top of the steering wheel, index finger tapping at the material while eyeing you from across the distance of a center console, its actuality minimal despite the way it feels as though a universe separates you from him.
Amidst the rain, the aux plays a slow, melodic tune.
"Well, it was intuition," he says, other hand reaching at your thigh, thumbing at your skin, his palm warm. "And, in part, a little birdie."
"And my location," you add.
"And your location," he reaffirms, smiling still, its shape less like a smirk and more akin to the look only a man so devotedly in love could ever wear, his eyes crinkling slightly, his expression content, malleable under your gaze.
The two of you return to the N109 Zone, the rain stopping at the edges of the city.
Sylus leaves the car first, circling it to open your door, hand outstretched as he takes your bag.
"I have to do it all over again tomorrow," you mumble, referring to your work, "this endless cycle of abuse..."
Sylus chuckles, free hand reaching for yours, fingers entwined, curling slightly as he squeezes your hand.
"How about you work for me? Luke and Kieran could use a court jester."
"Me?! A court jester?"
He laughs again, thumb now smoothing over the back of your hand, so familiar with its shape.
"Perhaps another role can be negotiated."
"It'd be better if there were no role at all!"
After eating dinner, you half-consider just retiring to bed without removing your sunscreen or jewelry—but Sylus, reading your mind, rests his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the bathroom without consideration for protest.
"I'm so tired," you say, voice already marred with the beginnings of sleep, your eyes struggling to stay awake. "Let me sleep while greasy..."
"No can do, sweetie," Sylus replies, sitting you down in front of the mirror, washing his hands with soap before removing your sunscreen with some toning pads. "Just bear it for a little, then you can sleep all you want."
His words are succeeded by a quick kiss to your temple.
You've taught him that products should be applied, and removed, to or from the face via circular motions. Sylus, the ever-excellent student, applies what he's learned meticulously, toning pads featherlight against your skin.
The hilt of a gun is so familiar to his callused hands, and the stains of blood which he's grown so used to washing off—but, even better than a comfortable weapon, or the curl of a fist cushioned within a boxing glove, is the feeling of your face within the palm of his hands, the residue of sunscreen staining his fingers, the ease of your brows as he washes away your long-winded day.
Then, his hand reaches for the back of your neck, unclasping your necklace with ease. Another kiss. He leans forward, removing the locks of your earrings, taking the hook gently through the piercing, tucking it neatly into your vanity's—which occupies nearly half of his bathroom—compartment
A third kiss to your well-loved face. He must sneak these in before he applies your skincare, as you've completely banned him from touching your face once your it's on.
"Wash your hands before each step," you mumble, words slurring together as your head lulls forward slightly. Though you can't see it, Sylus's expression shifts to reveal fondness, irrevocable, with the melting of his vermilion eyes, pupils smoldering, heart ablaze.
Leaning forward once more, Sylus presses yet another kiss onto the bone of your cheek.
"My, so demanding."
More words leave your mouth, all incoherent and jumbled, your eyes fluttering shut midsentence. Sylus, quite the opportunist, takes this moment to seal your lips with his, unable to contain the smile which sweeps over his face, its shape attributed to the gentleness of his touch, the softness of the kiss as he settles the skincare score here.
"Anything else?" he asks, beginning the first step of your skincare (not without washing his hands first, of course!), rubbing the product in circular motions. You don't say anything; Sylus continues forward, ever-the-excellent student.
And, when all is done, your head leans against his chest, your breaths slowing as you succumb to slumber. Ever-the-excellent student, Sylus picks you up, hands supporting your legs and back, carrying you to the bed with the stillness of a statue with a mission: not to wake you up.
Grocery shopping with Caleb, taste testing meals, eating together.
"Really?" Caleb asks, disbelieving tone not matching the smile which tugs at his lips. "More instant ramen, Pips?"
Without a morsel of hesitation, you toss the nuclear-4x-spicy-volcano-eruption package into the cart, pleased with yourself as Caleb continues forward, his exasperation half-committed.
"Your stomach's going to hurt if you eat this alone," he remarks, hand outstretched to ruffle your head, the other resting on the shopping cart's handle as to keep it on course. "Get something cool while we're here."
"That's impossible," you reply, marching forward. "I'm invincible!"
While you disappear into the snack aisle, Caleb makes a stop by the freezer section, grabbing you a bundle of ice cream, the flavors your favorite.
You'll thank me later, is all he thinks. Or maybe not. Actually, probably not. You'll chalk the ice cream's presence up to pure luck, downing it after suffering from spice without a single thought as to where it comes from. That's fine too. What matters is that you don't get hurt.
Per your request, Caleb drafted a list of ingredients to buy in order to make your favorite dish—yet, despite not being a necessary component, he finds himself crossing off the words "ice cream" and "instant noodles" from his notes, pocketing his phone soon thereafter.
Watching you sift through the various snacks, Caleb prepares himself to cross off "soda," too. It's routine to him: the order of which you go through the aisles, the items your gaze lingers on versus which ones you haphazardly sweep over, the way you compare your favorite flavors, brows furrowed, lips pursed as you rack your brain.
"They both look good," you mutter, comparing a strawberry soda to a grape one. "I don't know which to choose, though..."
Noticing the way your gaze adorns the pinkish packaging, Caleb thinks today is a strawberry day.
"I guess I'll have to go with strawberry, then!" you exclaim, shelving grape.
"And these," you start, now holding two different bags of chips. "This is a really difficult one..."
Noticing the way your bottom lip presses against your upper one, the way your nose wrinkles from thought, the way your eyes narrow, reading the packaging of both your options—Caleb thinks there really is no need to choose only one.
"Let's get both, then," he suggests, taking both bags from your hands. "Why choose?"
Your expression brightens instantly. "You're a genius, Caleb!"
He laughs. You continue forward, and, with the shopping cart separating your figure from his, Caleb stares. The slight hop to your steps, the way your head tilts whenever you notice cute packaging, the occasional glance over your shoulder, eyes crinkling when you call his name, pointing at some collaboration between your favorite characters and a candy brand.
Your very existence reduces his heart to a trembling thing, twisting his ribs, curling them inwards—and to think you don't even realize that you hold it within your hands.
All your favorite snacks—as well as the ingredients to your favorite dish—secured, the two of you return to Caleb's home, his arms filled with bags while you drink your soda, satisfied.
"Strawberry was the right pick!" you exclaim, holding the drink up to Caleb's lips, tilting it for him to drink. Sugar on his tongue, he hums, watching you race ahead to the door, unlocking it with your key.
The sweetness travels from his mouth to his eyes, circulating throughout his limbs, melting into his chest, your figure submerged within sunset irises, carving out his pupils, vested safely within the chambers of his heart, satiated.
While Caleb toils away at the meal, you offer him moral support in the form of handing him utensils, arm brushing against his as you observe the status of your dish, boiling in the pot.
He puts a spoon up to your lips, head tilting slightly as he asks, "Taste test?"
"It's good!" you say, giving him a thumbs-up for added effect. Caleb just grins, spoon now placed back in the pot, palm pressed against the counter as he leans in, eyes trailing from your eyes to your lips.
"Taste test?" he asks, again, grinning still, eyes fluttering shut when you press your lips against his.
"Also good," you reply, his hand parting from the counter to cup the side of your face, sunset eyes meeting yours.
"One more?"
You laugh. "I'll allow it."
"Thanks for your kindness," he says. Another kiss. The pot bubbles, and Caleb, though reluctant, turns his attention towards it, stirring it slowly.
Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the expressions which enrapture your face, the way you nod approvingly upon the first bite, the way you save all of the best parts for last. Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the dishes you leave, how clean the plates are, which sides you ask for more of.
"So?" he says, face leaning against the palm of his hand, his food growing cold while he watches you eat, the sight alone is enough to quell the rumble of his stomach. "What d'ya think, Pips?"
"You outdid yourself this time!" you exclaim in between bites. Caleb, though flattered, hands you a napkin, brows furrowed slightly as he's reminded of a time from your childhood when you choked on your food midsentence.
His lips part to remind you of that time—and to warn you not to eat so quickly—but the glimmer of your eyes, and the way you shift happily in your seat, stomps out all ideas of saying anything at all.
"Aren't you going to eat?" you ask, eyeing his side dish. He slides it over to you, feigning exasperation, reaching over to flick your forehead.
"How greedy," Caleb responds, laughing.
(But your existence drowns in his eyes, and your figure melts into his bones, and the squeeze of your hands are what allow his heart to contract, and oh, your smile, it crinkles your irises, and it scrunches your nose, just a little, and the expression exists with him for longer than it does on your face—and he wants more, and he wants you, and to covet you is the greediest thing any man could ever do.)
"I'm just helping you out," you say while scarfing down your food, "'cause, you know, this isn't thaaat good..."
Caleb laughs again. The clink of dishware, the sound of voices, the existence of two, melding together, pores sinking into pores, love melting into bones—This is it, Caleb thinks.
Everything; right here.
Gardening with Rafayel, pulling out weeds, taking a nap under a tree.
"I'm going to wage war on the weeds," Rafayel declares, sitting flat on the floor, clothes stained with dirt. "They're going to regret natural selection, the fact they evolved, the ancestors they came from, the—"
"Land versus sea," you remark, holding up two weeds, their roots entangled with clumps of dirt. "I think land would win."
"Excuse me?!"
"It's only been an hour," you say, ignoring his look of utter betrayal and disbelief. "Why are you sweating so much?"
"An hour!" Rafayel repeats, arm raised to his forehead, falling back into the dirt with a harsh thud! as his chest heaves dramatically, damn near gasping for air as his free hand reaches for his chest, palming at the skin above his chest's cavity.
"A whole hour! Oh, the agony! I might shrivel up and die at this rate!" Then, he sits up, pointing at you accusingly. "Is that what you want? Huh, huh?!"
"Just go inside," you say, dismissing him with the flick of your hand. "I'll do it myself."
Rafayel gasps, brows furrowed, bridge of his nose wrinkling while his lips part, hanging agape, head darting to and fro as if to say, "Are you hearing this right now?!" But there's nobody around to share his disbelief. So, Rafayel does what he does best: he feigns nonchalance.
"Fine then!" he responds, standing up, dusting the dirt off his clothes before crossing his arms. "You can fight these weeds yourself. Don't come crying to me when they win!"
He walks away, making no effort to hide the glances he spares in your direction, wondering if you're going to grovel for him to come back (if you did, he'd half-consider continuing to toil away at these weeds with you)—but you don't, because you're heartless (how ironic!) and cruel. And sick in the head. And you really, really don't have an eye for the things that really matter in this world (read: him! He's the thing that matters! Over here! Him!)
Ten steps and twenty glances later, Rafayel realizes that you really aren't looking back. Fine. Whatever. Not like he cares, anyway!
And so, Rafayel returns to his air-conditioned studio, bottom lip jutted out as he sits down at his couch, feeling ill from how sweaty he is, the ache of weed-pulling beginning to sweep through his arms. Leaning back, he stares up at the ceiling, sulking.
He turns to look at you again, your figure now separated from his by a thin layer of glass, hunched over as you continue pulling away at those vile plants.
There you go again, he thinks. Uncaring, unabashed, unafraid. You do things without much regard for anyone else; Rafayel hates that about you. He hates that he can't seem to leave you alone, he hates that his gaze seems to root itself in your existence, unable to be torn away, unable to stare at anything else other than the slight part of your lips as you dig into the dirt, your brows furrowed, arm raised to wipe at your sweat.
You look tired.
A couple minutes later, Rafayel returns to your side with a hat, dropping it clumsily onto your head while he hands you a drink. Crouching down, he meets your gaze with the haughty tilt of his head, pouting, while he drinks in your expression with the insatiability of a couple centuries.
"Are you really going to spend the whole day doing this?" he asks, thumbing at a bead of sweat which trickles down the side of your face, eyes trickling—for the most minute of seconds—to your lips as you drink. His gaze meets yours again.
"Yeah," you reply. "We have to get your garden in order before spring arrives."
He huffs. "What's so good about a garden?"
"Didn't you ask me to help you plant things?"
Rafayel invited you over to his place with the attention of gardening for twenty minutes, and lounging for the rest of the day. He did not intend for you to work away at these damned weeds as if your life depended on it.
Still, it doesn't look like you have the wherewithal to even fathom the enormity of his thoughts—considering, well, you have no memory of anything at all!—so, with a defeated look, Rafayel tugs you away from the weeds, ushering you under a tree where he's so coincidentally set up a blanket.
"Sleep," he mutters, fingers brushing over your eyes, the coolness of his touch contrasting the warmth of your skin. "You're always causing trouble for me, you know?"
You snort. "Me? Have you seen yourself?"
Though you can't see his face, you can make out the offense in his voice, as if he's shocked by your audacity. Before he can even respond, Rafayel notices the shift in your breathing, the relax of your muscles, brows easing over as you drift into sleep.
"Ugh," he mutters, sitting back, staring at your comfortable form as you've come over to his house, freeloaded off of his kindness, and now are sleeping, despite being the guest! There's really something wrong with your standards!
"You're lucky, you know," he says, voice barely above a whisper, wiping away at the sweat which forms across your skin. "Using me like this."
After a couple hours, you wake up, your head propped up against Rafayel's lap as he sketches in a handheld book, his expression incredulous as you turn towards the garden, mouth hanging agape once you realize it was completely weeded.
"What?!" you exclaim. "Where'd all the weeds go?"
Rafayel scoffs. "They all just decided to get up and leave once you fell asleep."
You turn towards him, his hand parting from the sketchbook to thumb at your face, pinching your cheek.
"Is that what you thought I'd say? No! I did everything! While you slept, I was out there, working like a dog, day and night, living off of—"
You laugh. Rafayel's words falter before his complaint can continue on, eyes growing wide as you grin, returning his gesture by cupping his face in between your hands, adoring.
"Thanks, Raf."
He looks away, lips jutted out, brows furrowing. "Hmph. Is that all?"
"I love you."
His gaze returns to you, eyes blown wide, mouth hanging slightly agape as he stares at you, figure drowned in his pupils, expression ablaze as if he had just witnessed the sublime.
"Ugh... Do you think words are enough? Am I an easy fish to you!?"
"I love you and appreciate you very much," you say.
"Blub blub blub."
You lean forward, the shadow of the tree reaching everywhere but your lips. When you part, Rafayel hums, chasing after you again, hand pressed against the back of your head as he presses you towards him.
"I don't work for free, you know!"
Expecting your arrival, Zayne leaves sticky notes around his house for you when he works late shifts, carrying you from the couch to his bed when he does return home.
There are times where you're forced to acquaint yourself with the silence.
Zayne's home feels larger than life when he's not here—locking the door behind you, entering the place with your bags—but, there are hints of his presence everywhere, warmth seeping in through the crevices, the cold beginning to shy away.
As if expecting your arrival (despite you not telling him you'd go to his place after work), there are sticky notes around the walls, on the fridge, on the countertops.
His handwriting, while quick and oftentimes merged, reveals hints of love, etched into the way he writes your name, clearer than other words—or the way he rewrites parts he thinks may be illegible, ensuring he's conveyed everything he needs to.
"Heat up the container with the red lid," the sticky note on the refrigerator door says. "It's your favorite soup. Side dishes are the containers on the top."
On the countertop: "Don't stay up too late. Don't wait for me to come home. Sleep first."
On the television remote: "Take breaks while watching. Don't stare at the screen for too long. Get up and look around."
On the cabinets filled with sweets: "Don't eat them all." You half-wonder if it's because he's planning to go through them all in your stead.
And, on the door to his room, its hinge parting to reveal his bed, neatly made: "Sleep here. Don't sleep on the couch."
When you reach for the container, pulling the side dishes away, there's another sticky note on the lid. The writing, smaller than the rest, clearer and more carefully enscribed, reads, "I love you. I'll be home soon. Eat well."
You pocket this sticky note, smiling uncontrollably, running your fingers over the words as you can feel the indent of the pen, the pressure of his adoration, the tenderness of his words, etched hours ago. Warm, you eat the food he prepared for you, sitting at the couch with a show put on the television, wrapped up in a spare blanket.
Despite Zayne telling you not to wait for him, you find yourself lingering on the couch for much longer than intended, gaze staring at the screen, dazed, as you peer at your phone, noticing the time. Midnight, you think, unable to bite back a yawn, your eyes glossy.
You don't know when you fell asleep after that.
Zayne arrives home, bag in hand, his scrubs folded neatly within as he changes into his slippers at the door, noticing an extra pair in the rack.
You're home, he thinks. The realization makes his heart stutter a little, organ swelling, feeling fuller and wholler and brighter. The buzz of the television resounds throughout the home, accompanied by the scent of food, your presence existing everywhere—in his home, in his chest, in his mind, lingering. He steps forward, noticing your figure on the couch, wrapped up in front of the bright light. He sighs.
"I thought I told you not to sleep here..." he mutters, approaching you from a distance, noticing your eyes, fluttered shut, mouth hanging slightly agape as you sleep without a single care in the world.
Zayne showers quickly, not wanting to keep you there for much longer, but not wanting to touch you before having cleaned himself from today's shift. Afterwards, he's quick to find your figure, lifting you up, still encased in the blanket as he brings you to his room, laying you down in his bed, replacing the spare with his own comforter.
"Zayne...?" you mumble, wiping at your eyes. Zayne's hand raises to your wrist, stopping the movement, lips parting to lecture you about how it's bad for your eyes—but then he catches a glimpse of your expression under the light, hazy, marred with sleep, yet adoration seeping through your gaze, and suddenly, he can't bring himself to say anything at all. He swallows thickly.
You've made such a lover of him, your existence pervading throughout his own, his lips unable to utter any word that is not your name.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, quiet. "Sleep."
You lean towards him, burying your face in the fabric of his shirt, breathing in, warmth coalescing. Zayne rubs circles into your back, fingers tracing over the skin, feeling the tenseness of your muscles which he'll address later. For now, all that matters if that he's home, that you're here, and that, most wonderfully, the two of you are together.
There is silence—most of all, there is love.
