Love Grows

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪 𝓛𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝔂

Tangerine x Reader

You hear Tangerine’s voice from the next room, that smooth British accent you fell in love with long before you fell in love with him.

"Darling," he calls, the sound of it like music to your ears. "Where are you hiding now?"

You can't help but smile as you sit curled up on the sofa, a book in hand but hardly paying attention to the words on the page. You loved this little game, the way he made even mundane moments feel like a grand adventure.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, raising your voice just enough for him to hear but still with a playful edge. “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

You hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps on the hardwood floor, deliberate and slow. “Ah, is that a challenge?”

Before you can respond, he appears in the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. The way he leans against the frame, the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—it sends a thrill through you.

"Found you," he says softly, his accent turning the simple phrase into something far more enchanting.

Your cheeks heat as you laugh, closing your book and setting it aside. “That didn’t take long. I was hoping you’d try harder.”

Tangerine crosses the room in a few strides and sits beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours before he takes it, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your palm. “I don’t need to try hard when I know exactly where my favorite person always is.”

You look at him, trying not to let his words completely undo you, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He leans closer, his voice dropping just slightly, low enough that it feels like a secret meant only for you.

“You like it when I talk, don’t you?” he teases, and his accent wraps around every syllable like a gift he knows you’ll never tire of unwrapping.

“Maybe,” you reply, pretending to play coy even as your heart races.

He grins, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushes yours. “You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, his voice warm and soft, the kind of sound that lingers in your chest long after it’s gone.

And then he kisses you—slow, tender, and filled with all the love he doesn’t even need to say because you already know it’s there. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smiles, that signature smile you can’t help but adore.

“Did I tell you I love you today?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, though you know he has, in a hundred different ways.

“Well then,” he says, that accent melting into the words like honey, “I love you more than words could ever say. But I’ll happily keep trying to prove it.”

And with him, you know he always will.

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The room is bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. You and Leon lie side by side on the bed, the chaos of the world outside feeling a million miles away. His presence is warm, grounding, and undeniably comforting, his familiar scent mingling with the crisp cotton sheets. Married life with him, though filled with moments of danger and unpredictability, has also been punctuated by a quiet intimacy that feels wholly yours.

You shift slightly, turning onto your side to face him. Leon mirrors you, propping his head up with his hand, his ice-blue eyes crinkling in the corners as he gazes at you with a softness that makes your heart flutter, even after all these years.

“What are you looking at?” you tease, though there’s no edge to your voice.

He chuckles lowly, a sound that resonates deep in his chest. “You. Just you.”

His free hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, trailing lightly down your cheek, the curve of your jaw, before coming to rest at the base of your neck. The touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his for a moment before turning it over to inspect his palm. It’s calloused and strong, a testament to everything he’s been through. You trace the faint scar along the side of his thumb, your fingertips light against his skin.

“Where’d this one come from?” you ask softly.

Leon glances down at the mark, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Raccoon City,” he answers simply, though his tone carries a world of unspoken memories. “It’s nothing compared to some of the others.”

“Let me see,” you say, gently pulling his arm closer. You start inspecting his forearm, finding a small, faint mole near the crook of his elbow. “I didn’t know you had this.”

Leon chuckles again, his eyes following your fingers as they glide over his skin. “I’m full of surprises, huh?”

“Apparently.” You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss just above the spot. “My turn?”

He hums in agreement, rolling onto his back and pulling you closer. “Where should I start?” His hands find their way to your arms, his touch feather-light as he begins his own exploration.

The moment is filled with quiet laughter as he spots a small birthmark on your shoulder. “How long have you been hiding this from me?” he teases, his thumb brushing over it.

“Not hiding,” you reply with a grin. “You just never asked.”

Leon shakes his head, his smile widening. “I’m going to find every single one.”

His fingers move with a sense of wonder, like he’s unraveling a mystery, trailing along your arm, your collarbone, and down to your wrist. You mirror his actions, your fingertips tracing his shoulders, the dip of his clavicle, and the faint lines of old wounds.

It’s not just the physical closeness but the unspoken trust between you. Each scar, each mark, tells a story, and sharing them in this way feels like the most profound form of vulnerability.

The two of you fall into a peaceful silence, your fingers continuing their gentle exploration. Time seems to blur, and the world outside ceases to matter. All that exists is the warmth of his touch, the sound of his steady breathing, and the unshakable bond between you.

i like pizza

dick grayson x Reader

The rooftop is quiet, save for the soft hum of Gotham City below. You're sitting cross-legged next to Dick, sharing a pizza box between you. The moonlight reflects off the sleek black of his suit, but he looks more relaxed than ever. The domino mask hides his eyes, but you can feel them on you anyway.

“I like pizza,” he says, breaking the silence with a grin, as if this is some profound revelation.

You smirk, biting into a slice. “You like pizza. Groundbreaking.”

His smile widens. “You like pizza.”

“I do,” you reply, matching his playful tone. “Are you building up to something, Grayson?”

He leans back on his hands, the warm breeze tousling his dark hair. “Maybe. But you’ll have to wait for the big finish.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart betrays you, skipping a beat. Dick Grayson has a way of pulling you into his orbit, where everything feels lighter, brighter—even on a night like this.

“I am bad at poems,” he suddenly declares, tilting his head dramatically, his face angled toward the stars. His tone is so earnest, it takes you a second to realize he’s trying to be funny.

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that makes his smile soften into something more sincere. “Yeah, I can see that,” you tease.

“Harsh,” he replies, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. Then, leaning forward slightly, he looks at you with a kind of quiet intensity. His voice drops lower, losing its humor but keeping its warmth. “Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air, simple but charged. You freeze, your slice of pizza forgotten. The world feels like it’s tilting, your pulse racing to keep up.

“You’re just going to throw that out there?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Sometimes you just have to say what you feel. No masks, no games.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s talking about more than just this—if he’s showing you a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Either way, you don’t wait for him to repeat himself. You lean in, meeting him halfway.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like a secret shared between just the two of you. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests lightly against yours, and there’s a spark of mischief back in his voice.

“So,” he says softly, “does this mean we’re sharing the last slice?”

You laugh, your chest light, and nudge him playfully. “Not a chance, Grayson.”

He grins, the rooftop feels like the safest, happiest place in the world.

Strangers

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You slide into the passenger seat of the car, the engine purring softly beneath you. It's Charles Leclerc driving, the familiar hum of the road filling the air as you both pull out of the parking lot, heading nowhere in particular. He’s smiling at you, that kind of grin that tells you he's thinking about something but isn't quite ready to say it yet.

The night is warm, the kind of night that feels like it could stretch on forever. You’re both in no rush, enjoying the space between words. Every now and then, your eyes meet and there’s a flicker, a spark that you can’t really explain, but it feels like something is about to happen.

You talk for hours. The conversation starts off light, about racing, about silly things. Then it shifts to deeper stuff, things you hadn’t expected to share with him, but it feels easy. Safe. The kind of vulnerability you rarely show anyone else, but with Charles, it’s like you’ve known him forever.

At some point, you’re leaning over the center console, his face so close to yours, and you can feel the tension in the air. It’s as if the world has slowed down, leaving just the two of you in this perfect moment. And then, without even thinking, your lips meet, gentle at first, then a little deeper, as though neither of you wants to break away. The kiss lingers, but it’s not rushed. It’s exactly how it should be—slow, and full of all the unspoken things you both feel but haven’t quite said out loud.

But then, just like that, everything changes. The next morning, the text you sent goes unanswered. Charles is distant, and you start to feel that strange emptiness that comes when someone you thought was close begins to slip away. You wait for a reply that never comes, wondering if that night, that kiss, was just a momentary lapse or if it meant something more.

Days pass, and there’s no word. The silence grows, stretching between you like an ocean you can't cross. It feels like you're drifting farther apart with each passing second. Soon, the connection that once felt so natural has vanished, and all that's left are the echoes of a time when you both could've been more. The words you shared, the laughter, the kiss—they seem like distant memories. You no longer know where he is, or if he even remembers the way your heart beat faster that night.

And then, one random day, it hits you. He’s gone. And just like that, you're strangers again, with nothing left but the ghost of something that could’ve been.

Religion's in your lips

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

Under the dim light of the bedroom, you lie next to Leon, your fingers tracing the outline of his hand. The weight of the world seems miles away, the only thing that matters is the warmth between you two, the quiet rhythm of your breathing syncing together in perfect harmony. It feels like you’re the only two left in this universe, like nothing else can touch you in this moment.

His presence has a kind of serenity to it. There’s something in the way he holds you, as if he's been waiting for this quiet, intimate escape his entire life. You turn your head to find him already watching you with those soft, steady eyes, as though every unspoken word between you both is enough.

You lift a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. It’s there, and it’s real. This moment, these little exchanges that mean more than anything else. His lips, warm and gentle against your skin, send a spark down your spine. They carry the weight of something deep, something sacred.

The way he touches you, as if every part of you is a prayer, is a silent reverence. Your bodies speak a language that needs no words, the connection between you both unspoken, but understood in every caress, every glance, every shared breath.

The night stretches on, enveloping you both in its quiet embrace. There’s no rush, no need for anything but the closeness that fills the space between you, wrapped in the softness of his touch and the tenderness in his gaze. The world outside doesn’t exist. Only this sacred moment does.

And when he presses his lips against yours again, you understand that this is what it means to be loved—no words needed, just the devotion and quiet worship in the press of his lips, the way he holds you. His love feels like something sacred, like the calm that follows a storm. Like a prayer.

You find solace in him, in the simple touch of his hands and the silent promises they carry. The night is yours, and for once, the world can wait.

𝐎𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐝! 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Dave Lizewski x Reader

You’ve known Dave Lizewski since you were kids, your childhood filled with random conversations, shared secrets, and playground adventures. He was always the awkward, goofy guy with a heart of gold, never really standing out but always managing to make you laugh. The two of you went your separate ways as you got older, but somehow, you always ended up in the same classes, walking the same halls. It was almost like fate had a funny way of pulling you back together.

Now, here you are, teenagers, both of you in the same high school, sitting next to each other in History class. And yet, nothing feels the same. Dave has changed. You’ve noticed it before—the way he’s grown into his body, how he’s stopped wearing those ridiculous superhero T-shirts that used to make you laugh, but still, you’ve always seen him the same way. You’ve always known him as Dave, the boy who couldn’t seem to look at you without turning red.

But lately, something’s different. You’ve started catching him looking at you—really looking at you. Not just glancing over your shoulder or sneaking a glance when he thinks you're not paying attention, but staring at you, his expression softer, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time. It makes your heart skip a beat every time, and you’re sure he’s noticed.

Today, during lunch, you’re sitting in the cafeteria, your tray in front of you, half-eaten. You’re talking to your friends, but your eyes keep straying to the table where Dave is sitting with his usual group. You can feel his eyes on you again, a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, making you look over to find him already glancing in your direction. His face is flushed, as if he’s embarrassed to have been caught, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. You almost don’t want to look away because you feel it, too—the pull.

You decide to take the plunge and stand up, walking over to his table, your heart racing in your chest. His friends all wave and greet you, but you can’t focus on them. Dave is sitting there, his hand resting awkwardly on his tray, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“Hey, Dave,” you say, breaking the silence with a smile. His gaze softens immediately, and he sits up straighter, like he’s been waiting for you to come over for ages.

“Hey, you...” he replies, his voice just a little shaky. There’s a small pause before he adds, “You look… really nice today.”

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his words, the way he blushes immediately afterward. It’s the same old Dave, the one who’s always been awkward, but now there’s something new between you. Something unspoken. You shift on your feet, unsure of what to say next, and then you hear him mutter, almost to himself, “I… I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Really?” You can’t help but let the words slip out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his eyes meeting yours again. “Yeah, since we were little. But I was always too afraid to say anything.”

A soft laugh escapes you, not mocking, but warm and knowing. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you were always so out of my league,” he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured you’d never look at me the same way.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “You’re an idiot,” you tell him gently, feeling a rush of affection toward him. “You’ve always been my friend, Dave. I think… I think I’ve always liked you, too.”

His eyes widen, the surprise written clearly on his face. It’s like the world has just tilted on its axis for him. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out to you but doesn’t know how to.

“Well, I guess I’m just an idiot who got lucky then,” he says with a grin, that familiar warmth returning to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your heart racing. “I guess so.”

You sit down next to him, the world seeming to melt away as you both fall into easy conversation, like no time has passed. But now, there’s something new between you, something you can’t ignore. The spark that was always there is finally being acknowledged, and you both know it’s only the beginning of something much bigger.

And as the lunch bell rings, signaling the end of another school day, you find yourself feeling lighter, your heart warmer than it’s ever been. This, whatever this is between you and Dave, feels like it’s meant to be.

hii‼️i love you work sooo much and how the songs are just so perfect for every thing you write😻 idk if you take requests but if you do, can you write smth inspired by i see the light from tangled with cs55🙏🏼 it could be that reader is introverted and doesn't always take risks or go out of here comfort zone and how he gets her out of her shell but also becomes her comfort zone, or how ever you think seems good🙏🏼💕

𝓣𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You never meant to be there. Not in the pit lane, not in the team garage, and definitely not pressed up against the fence watching sparks fly from the rear of an F1 car. You came to the race weekend because your friend had an extra ticket and you figured it was better than your usual Saturday — a quiet apartment, a half-finished book, maybe a cup of tea you forget to drink until it's cold.

You’re not the type for noise. Not the type for fast things, or crowds, or the adrenaline that seems to fuel people like him. Carlos Sainz. You only knew his name because your friend said it with a dreamy sigh on the flight. You’d nodded politely and Googled him in the hotel room just to keep up the conversation.

And yet, somehow, he notices you.

It’s a ridiculous story, the kind you’d never believe if someone else told it. You’re just standing there, watching the team pack up, when he walks over. You try not to stare. He’s still in his race suit, hair a little wild from the helmet, sweat at his temples. He smiles like you’re not just another face in the blur of fans and engineers.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he says with an easy charm.

You look down at yourself, at your sensible shoes and your hands nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “I don’t,” you reply, more honestly than you mean to.

He laughs. “Then we have something in common. I’m not supposed to like quiet people. They say I talk too much.”

You expect him to move on, to laugh again and disappear into the crowd. But he doesn’t. He stays. He asks your name, and when you give it, he repeats it slowly, like he's making sure he gets it right. Like it matters.

It starts there — a few minutes, a joke, the strange magnetism of someone who belongs to a world you never considered stepping into. You meet again the next day. Then again. And then it’s coffee, and walking through cities you’ve never seen, and him letting you talk at your own pace, which is slow and careful, like the words might fall apart if you move too fast.

He’s patient. He’s bright in a way you aren’t used to. He makes jokes you don’t always understand, but he notices the way your eyes light up when he mentions something you do. He starts learning your rhythms. He teases, gently. Encourages, softly. You find yourself saying “yes” to things you usually decline. A boat ride. A dinner with too many people.

He pulls you out of yourself — not in a way that erases you, but in a way that stretches your boundaries without snapping them. He makes the world feel a little less sharp, a little less terrifying.

But something strange happens. He stops feeling like the push out of your comfort zone. He starts feeling like home.

His voice on the phone when he’s halfway around the world. The way he throws you a grin from the driver’s seat. The softness in his eyes when he knows you're about to withdraw, and the patience he shows when you do.

You used to think comfort meant hiding. Quiet. Predictability.

Now you know it can also mean someone who makes the noise bearable.

Someone who doesn't ask you to be loud, just to be you.

dreamgirl

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

You had always known that love could be complicated, but nothing had prepared you for the whirlwind of emotions that Alexei Vronsky brought into your life. He was everything you had ever imagined in a partner — handsome, charming, and filled with a passion that both exhilarated and terrified you. You were engaged to him, but somehow, that commitment only made your feelings more tangled.

It was a quiet afternoon when you found yourself alone with him in the garden, the golden rays of the setting sun casting a soft glow over the petals of the flowers. Alexei stood beside you, his usual composed demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable, more real.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re meant for something more than this?” he asked, his voice soft, but laced with intensity. You looked at him, feeling the weight of his gaze on your face, his eyes filled with longing that you couldn’t deny.

You had always admired Alexei’s ability to mask his emotions, but in that moment, it was clear he was torn. Torn between the life you had been planning together, and the undeniable pull he felt for something else — someone else, perhaps. You didn’t need to ask. The tension between you both was enough.

“I don’t know, Alexei,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, as you gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “I thought I knew what we had, but sometimes, I wonder if we're just holding onto the idea of each other.”

His hand reached out, his fingers grazing yours. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine. His face softened, as though he understood.

“Maybe we’re afraid to let go,” he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. “Afraid of what it means to love someone completely… to lose ourselves in them.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions that swirled within you. Everything was so uncertain, yet when you were with him, the world outside seemed to disappear.

“I don’t want to lose you, Alexei,” you said, your voice barely audible. “But what if we’re not the people we thought we were when we made these promises?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence enveloping you as he gently cupped your face with his hands. His thumb brushed over your lips, and for a moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

“We were always meant to be more than the promises we made,” he murmured, his lips grazing your forehead in a tender kiss. “You and I… we are meant to write our own story. A story that is not bound by expectations or duty, but by what we feel, here and now.”

His words sent your heart into a frenzy, but you knew deep down that this was the truth you had been avoiding. Your engagement with Alexei was built on expectations, on what others had hoped for you, not on the uncharted path of real, raw love that pulsed between you.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you realized that you couldn’t keep pretending to be someone you weren’t. With Alexei, you were not bound by the future, but by the present — the shared moments of passion and vulnerability that connected you both in a way that was impossible to deny.

In that garden, with the world fading around you, you knew that your love story with Alexei Vronsky would never be simple, but it would always be yours. And no matter what the future held, you would always remember the day when you let go of the promises you thought you had to keep, and embraced the love that was waiting for you both.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: It was fun while it lasted, huh?

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

a lovely night

Timothee Chalamet x Reader

You’re standing at the edge of a wooden pier, the ocean stretching out in front of you, its surface rippling with the silver sheen of twilight. The sky is a painter’s dream—swirling blues and purples and soft pink streaks that refuse to settle. You wouldn’t have chosen to be here, not with him, but here you are.

“Nice view,” Timothée says, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not looking at you, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. That ever-present air of confidence, or maybe it’s just boredom. Hard to tell.

“It’d be nicer without the commentary,” you shoot back.

He lets out a short laugh, tilting his head toward you. His curly hair catches the fading light, and for a split second, you think it makes him look... well, annoying, actually. Of course he’d find a way to be effortlessly attractive when you’re trying to stay irritated.

“So why are we here again?” you ask, crossing your arms as the sea breeze teases at the hem of your dress.

“You tell me. You’re the one who wanted to walk instead of staying at the party.”

“Yeah, because parties with you are unbearable.”

“And this is better?” He gestures at the empty pier, the lazy waves, the distant hum of the city behind you both.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t leave.

For a while, the two of you stand in silence. The night starts to creep in, the stars blinking awake. Somewhere out there, a couple would be leaning into each other, whispering something soft, something that matters. But here? Here it’s just you and Timothée, stuck in a conversation neither of you wants to admit feels inevitable.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he says suddenly.

“What’s funny?”

“This. Us. Standing here like this. It’s almost…” He pauses, as if searching for the right word. “Romantic.”

You laugh—sharp and incredulous. “Romantic? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m serious!” He turns to you, grinning now. That ridiculous, lopsided grin you’ve seen a thousand times. “It’s the perfect setting, isn’t it? Moonlight, the ocean, you in that dress”

“Stop.”

“Why? Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s just… You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

The wind picks up, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. Like maybe there’s something unspoken here, something you’d both rather not acknowledge. But then he shifts, breaking the spell.

“You know,” he says, “if this were a movie, this would be the part where we kiss.”

“Good thing it’s not a movie.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound feels warmer than it should. “Good thing,” he repeats.

And yet, as the night deepens and the stars sharpen their glow, neither of you makes a move to leave. Maybe it’s the view. Or maybe, despite everything, there’s something about wasting a lovely night with someone who isn’t supposed to matter.