isn't it crazy that we are born only to die

– wilford (motherlovin') warfstache x ken (barbie)

Every morning, without fail, Holland March would stumble into the living room to wave Holly off for school looking like he'd just survived a small house fire. His tie would be crooked, his hair would be sticking up in at least three directions, and he would always freeze up when he spotted you next to Holly, about to walk her to school. There was a sort of dance that you two had perfected in the mornings, wherein he'd make a total dick of himself and spend all day thinking about it.

"Bye, dad!" Holly yelled from the bottom of the stairs on one such morning. "Oh, shoot, forgot my backpack!" You laughed as she ran up the stairs at full speed past her half-awake father, who was only now coming down to say goodbye. Once again, he seemed to have forgotten that five days a week, you would be there: he had hired you, after all. "Morning, Holland," you said, smiling up to him. Holland froze halfway down the stairs, and quickly pushed a hand through his messy hair. "Hi. Hi, Y/N," he replied, mouth opening and closing like he had more to say. "...That all?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows with a smile. "I had more," he admitted, shaking his head. "It— uh, it left." You laughed and he visibly relaxed, like his job for the day had been done. He knew that he'd spend the next ten minutes replaying the sound in his head while trying (and failing) to get ready for work without making more of an ass of himself.

It had been weeks of little moments like this that Holland kept in mind to get through the day: sweet, teasing greetings when you arrived; your deft hands fixing his tie in the mornings as he tried not to stop breathing; your smile when he brought you flowers (as well as a generous tip) when you stayed late because a stakeout ran over.

Yet, despite how pathetic he was for you (maybe a little because of it), you felt the same way, looking forward to every shift and trying not to stumble over your own words. Which was why, one afternoon, you made a terrible decision; an incredibly attractive decision, according to Holland March.

On this particular evening, Holland was leaning against one of the columns in the house's entrance, cigarette hanging anxiously from his lips whilst he waited for you to arrive. If he was being honest, he'd smoked about five cigarettes back-to-back just for an excuse to stand outside and greet you when you got there. Finally, he saw you walking up the driveway, walking quickly because it was raining buckets. When you saw him at the doorway you cocked your head, squinted through the rain, and smiled: he was normally gone by the time you got there. He smiled back warmly, straightening up a little as you approached. "Hey, Mr. March," you waved, jogging to get out of the rain. "Hey." His gaze softened as he looked at you, soaking wet and a little windswept: you looked wonderful, as always. "It's raining," he said, then immediately took an enormous inhale of his cigarette to try and off-put what he had just said; nice one, asshole, he thought. "Yeah," you laughed, peeling the hood of your jacket from your head. "I noticed."

He smiled down at his shoes. You leaned your back against the column opposite him, catching your breath for a moment. Without a word, you suddenly reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth. Holland blinked. "What are you... hey!" You placed it between your own lips, taking a drag like you'd seen him do so many times before. You, unlike Holland, however, were not used to cigarettes (let alone his cheap and unreasonably strong Lucky Strikes), and the smoke hit your throat like a freight train. "Oh, urgh—" You tried to stop yourself from coughing, but the cigarette fell from your fingers onto the floor as you cupped your hand over your mouth and began to cough— violently. Holland watched, amused, with one eyebrow raised. "Oh my God," you coughed. "Holy—" Cough. "Holy shit."

You were laughing through your streaming eyes, now, and so was Holland. Finally, the coughing fit subsided and Holland reached down to pluck the cigarette off the floor, inspecting it before popping it back between his teeth. "Not a smoker?" he asked. "Obviously not." His face was doing something strange: trying very hard not to smile, and failing miserably as he grinned down the end of his cigarette at you. "You stole a cigarette even though you don't smoke? Why? What's wrong with you?" he laughed. "Sue me! I was curious," you defended, wiping your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest like you didn't nearly just die from one puff. "I see you putting those things away every five minutes, I wanted to know what the appeal was." "You figure it out?" "Fuck no," you scoffed. "Thought you'd look grown up? Do you feel grown up, now?" he laughed. You didn't reply, scowling at him; he continued to grin at you. "And here I was, thinking you were far too cool for—" "Oh my God, would you shut up?" With one determined stride, you closed the space between you and Holland, and grabbed the front of his white vest, once again pulling the cigarette from his lips and throwing it onto the ground. You pulled yourself against his lips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other clenched by your side.

The words disappeared from his lips immediately as Holland mumbled against your mouth. When he finally caught on to what you were doing, he closed his eyes and kissed you back— deeply, needily. You pulled back to catch your breath, certain that you'd got the final word, but he wasn't having that: it was like he remembered that he was a grown man, and quite a tall one, at that. He straightened up from his slouched position against the column, leaning over into the kiss so that your head craned upward as he walked you backward, one hand snaking around your waist and the other cupping the back of your head. You squeaked in surprise as he guided you, and a second later your back met one of the columns with a soft thump. Holland's hands rested on your shoulders, and you began to worry that you'd misread the signals. "I—" "There." He looked incredibly pleased with himself. "Can I finish my point, now, please?" You paused. "What point?" You furrowed your eyebrows. Holland leaned closer, so that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes as he stared you down longingly. "I was going to say... that it was actually pretty cute." You froze, then laughed; his expression softened instantly. It dawned on you that you knew this look, the one he got whenever he saw you: it was a lovesick look. You spent a moment peering up at him before he spoke again. "You know," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours lightly, "I was trying very hard to be charming when you rudely interrupted me." "You were failing." "I know." You laughed again, and Holland's smile widened: that was his job done. God, he adored that sound. Then, he kissed you before you could come up with another comeback.