pretty girl ave

And, it was the perfect excuse to introduce them all to Jaafar, who had tagged along on your hometown trip. He’d always been utterly helpless when it came to you, always willing to join you on whatever adventure or help out with any task.

What had started as a casual dinner with some of your closest high school friends soon ballooned into invite-everyone-we-know-and-see-who-shows-up. Surprisingly, most of the people you remember from high school put in an appearance even just for a few minutes. There are some who never left your hometown, some who live close enough to drive in for the night, and some like you, who just happened to be in town.

At first, everyone was having a good time. Jaafar stood with his hand wrapped around your waist, chatting with some of the girls that had been in your class since kindergarten. He got along well with all of your old friends, content to just stand by your side and listen as you all caught up and reminisced. 

“I can’t believe so many people showed up!” You exclaim, looking around the space at the swarms of people. There’s a can sweating in your hands, condensation beading against the aluminum in the residual heat of the afternoon, even as the sun begins to set.

“Everyone’s bored here,” one of your friends quips, and you all laugh. It’s been nicer than you thought, this whole mini-reunion. While you’ve certainly outgrown some of your old friends, it makes you happy to be able to catch up with everyone, to fill in the gaps that you don’t get from Instagram posts or yearly birthday texts.

And it’s even better that you get to share it with Jaafar. The two of you have created a perfect little life together, and you couldn’t have imagined ever feeling so content with your life. Getting to show him this, your hometown and your friends who’ve known you since birth, just feels right.

“Oh, God,” one of your friends says, looking over your shoulder in the fading sunlight. 

“What?” You whip your head around, eager to know what she’s talking about. 

“It’s David.” She says it in such a voice of disgust that Jaafar really doesn’t need to know anything more about the man. You make a fake gagging noise beside him, rolling your eyes as you turn your attention back to your friends. 

In high school, David had been something of a playboy. You always thought he was something of a sleazy jerk, even though you could admit he was quite attractive. He dated his way through the school, and while he was often nice enough to you, every interaction with him seemed to leave a bad taste in your mouth, like he was only being charming with the intention of getting in your pants.

Which, really, wasn’t too far off.

By the way everyone greets him with smiles and hugs, it seems like he’s started to age out of that phase of his life, and you’re thankful for it, if only so you don’t have to deal with him. No matter how many times you laughed his advances off, he came back stronger than ever, with compliments and kind words that you could see right through, even in high school.

David was the type of guy that parents and friends and anyone with more life experience than you always warned you to steer clear of. You’d known plenty of guys like him during college, and some of your friends were dating guys like him now. You, though, managed to somehow avoid dating the Davids of the world, and had found the best guy around just when you thought to swear off dating forever.

“He and May dated for, like, a year,” your friend Sydney says in a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for your group to hear. You find your gaze drifting over towards May, who’d always been sweet to you, and then back towards David. He keeps getting closer and closer, like a shark.

You tipped your can towards your mouth, hoping to take a long drink and instead finding the can empty. You sigh, squeeze the aluminum in your hand until it dents slightly. If David’s coming over, you’re going to need a drink.

Beside you, Jaafar squeezes your hip gently before stepping away, reaching for the empty can in your hands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before walking away, towards where the coolers have been set up.

“Where’d you find him?” One of your friends asks in wonder as you turn over your shoulder to watch Jaafar disappear into the growing darkness of the night, a small smile on your face. 

“Yeah, and where can I get one?” The whole group erupts into laughter, and you go right along with them. It’s been so nice to catch up, to get to introduce Jaafar to all your old friends, like you’re connecting your past with your future. 

As the laughter fades, Sydney looks over your shoulders and grimaces.

“David’s coming over here,” she announces, and everyone around you makes various noises of varying levels of disgust. Some of your friends had been unlucky enough to fall for David’s charms, dating him for a few weeks before he got what he wanted and left them in the dust. 

“He reminds me of bed bugs,” you joke, “you can never get rid of him.”

You and your friends are still laughing when David saunters up to you, walking over like he’s gracing you with his presence. He smiles, and you resist the urge to scowl. He hasn’t done anything to warrant that response yet though, so you just smile back. He says your name in amazement, shaking his head to himself. 

“Wow, you look great.” He clearly hasn’t changed at all. Right out of the gates and laying it on thick, obviously thinking that now’s his chance to do what he couldn’t in high school. 

“Oh, thanks,” you say, watching over his shoulder and hoping to see Jaafar returning, and sighing internally when you see him still over by the coolers, chatting to someone you’d introduced him to earlier. You curse his kind nature, his inability to stop himself from getting roped into conversations because he’s always too nice to just brush past someone.

“I always thought you were so pretty in high school,” he tells you and you laugh, because you’re really not sure what else to do. David, apparently, takes it as a good sign because he grins at you. He’s laying it on thick, clearly thinking he’s in with a chance.

Really, it just shows how much he doesn't know you. Not only is he either unaware or doesn’t care that you’re here with Jaafar, these little tricks have never worked on you. Even in high school, you were never swept off your feet by a generic compliment and an easy smile.

“Feels like so long ago, huh?” You’re desperately trying to make him get the hint, but he’s oblivious. You wish you had a drink, if only to have something to do with your hands.

“Only a few years, really.” He pauses, takes a long pull from the bottle in his hands. “How long you in town for?”

“Just a couple days, we’re going home tomorrow.” You put emphasis on the we, hoping that gets your point across. At this point, you just want to end this conversation, want to go back to reminiscing on your crazy teachers from high school and rehashing childhood memories that always made you laugh.

“We?” He asks, arching an eyebrow and looking around theatrically, as if someone was standing beside you the whole time. You finally catch sight of Jaafar coming back, your drink of choice in hand, and your shoulders deflate in relief. Seeing how well Jaafar knows you, how he’s always able to bring back a drink or a meal and know you’ll like it, always manages to make you fall a little more in love.

“Me and my boyfriend,” you point over David’s shoulder, towards Jaafar getting closer and closer. 

David scoffs softly at the sight of him, turning his attention back towards you. Jaafar smiles at you as he gets closer, and you can’t help but smile back. In front of you, though, the smile that had been plastered on David’s face has turned into a scowl of sorts. It almost makes you want to laugh, how obviously childish he’s being, as if you’re not all adults, as if he’s entitled to your time or attention.

And it makes little flares of anger start to go off in your chest, at the fact that David could ever think he holds a candle to Jaafar. It’s not even the looks, although Jaafar runs laps around him in that department, it’s his disposition and his personality and the way he treats you. Jaafar’s kindness is endless, not only to you but to everyone who crosses his path, and you’re never left second guessing when it comes to the way he feels about you.

You highly doubt that the manchild in front of you has ever held a door open for a date, has ever given a girl flowers without serious prompting. It enrages you to no end that he thinks he can laugh about Jaafar.

“Seriously?” He crosses his arms across his chest as if he’s all that, “Isn’t he a little old?”

“We’re all adults here,” you say, still trying to defuse the situation before he pushes you over the edge. “You never could take a fucking hint, huh?”

Your voice raises in volume ever so slightly, and you’re trying hard not to let David get the better of you. It’s one thing to flirt shamelessly with taken girls, that doesn’t make him any different from a majority of guys you meet in bars. But coming after your relationship, after Jaafar, is taking things way too far.

“What’s your fucking problem?” David spits, his own anger bubbling over as you make it clear that he’s never had a chance with you, and never will. In the blink of an eye, Jaafar has made his way back over to you, standing by your side like he’s never left.

“My problem?” You ask incredulously, still trying to keep yourself from becoming absolutely fuming, thinking about the consequences of simply decking him in the face. Beside you, Jaafar is steady, a warm palm coming to rest on the small of your back as he hands you your drink.

“I was just being nice,” David raises his hands, as if trying to escape culpability, “just stating the obvious.”

“I don’t know how I could possibly be any clearer,” you laugh and it sounds absolutely unhinged, like you’ve been pushed past the point of no return, “leave us the hell alone. My relationship is none of your business.”

David opens his mouth to argue again, to try and paint himself as the good guy and make it seem like you’ve been the one overreacting.

“C’mon, leave it alone.” Jaafar’s voice is even, controlled, although the bite to his words is unmistakable. There’s a coldness there, a tone that leaves no room for argument. He knows you can stand up for yourself, he’s seeing it with his own eyes, but he can’t stomach the thought of anyone talking to you like that. 

“Alright, fine,” David raises his hands and backs away, and it’s just the cherry on top that he listens to Jaafar and not you. “Keep your old-ass boyfriend, I don’t care. Grown fucking man, yelling at me.”

He walks away muttering curses to the both of you, and you can still feel your chest heaving with rage. You turn towards Jaafar with a heavy sigh, and you can hear your friends whispering as David retreats, no doubt spreading the message that he’s still the same sleazy guy he’s always been. Jaafar rests his hands on your waist and pulls you closer, looking down at you with a softness in his eyes that seems totally at odds with how fired up you feel.

“You alright?” He asks, just loud enough for you to hear, and you nod. “Really?”

“He always pisses me off,” you say, and Jaafar cracks a smile. “Never knows when to stop.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” It makes you laugh, more of the tension and adrenal evaporating from your body. 

“Thanks for defending my honor,” you joke, looking up at Jaafar who just huffs out a laugh in response. 

“Baby, you were defending my honor,” he retorts, “that guys never stood a chance.”

“I can get scary,” you concede, nodding sagely. 

“I know,” Jaafar’s voice is tinged with mischief, and you swat at his chest in retaliation, even as you laugh. He pulls you closer, tugs you to his chest and wraps his arms around you, laying his head on top of yours. For a few moments, you just stay like that, feeling the beating of each other's hearts and the rhythms of your combined breathing. 

Eventually, you rejoin your friends and everyone decides to ignore the whole David incident. Jaafar rests a hand on your hip the rest of the night, pulling you close and feeling the warmth of your body besides his. The next time he goes to get you a drink, no one bothers you, and he returns to find you laughing with your friends, just as you were when he left.

When he smiles over at you, fingers brushing as you accept the can from his outstretched hand, you grin back. No one ever stands a chance against you, especially not where Jaafar is concerned. It makes him happier than it probably should, the fact that you’re so willing to stand up for him.

He dips down to press a kiss to the top of your head, affection rushing through his body when you press yourself closer to him. He’s never been happier to be by your side.

yay yay yay age gap jaafar i loooooove writing these hehehe, shoutout to @doe-eyedtenshi for this wonderful spectacular idea, i hope you enjoy <3

No one had treated you so sweetly, so kindly, as if you were someone worthy of the purest form of affection. From the moment you met, Jaafar has been a gentleman, through and through. A friend of a friend had invited you to a party, and Jaafar had been taking acting classes with a different friend of the host’s. So your paths crossed, and you were smitten almost immediately.

It would have been harder to resist the near magnetic pull you felt towards him the first second you laid eyes on him, to not spend the whole night staring in his direction. He was almost unfairly attractive, the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen by far. Jaafar caught on quickly, felt your gaze on him from across the room and it made him feel shy in ways he’s never known.

Building up his courage, trying to come up with an opening line that wasn’t cheesy or lame, Jaafar eventually made his way over to where you stood in a corner, talking with some friends away from the rest of the room.

“Want a drink?” He offers, extending his hand out to you. For a split second, you hesitate, bowled over by just how perfect he looked up close. But then you slot your hand into his, and it was like the last two pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.

He pulls you away from the crowds, takes you somewhere quiet. Jaafar can’t remember the last time he’s been to a house party like this, all loud and packed and full of alcohol. He also can’t remember ever feeling the way he feels about you.

After spending the whole night talking, you exchange numbers and make a plan to meet up again, for a real date. You practically squeal when you see his text asking you out, feeling like a kid again with your first crush, almost vibrating with excitement and anticipation. You can’t remember the last time anyone asked you out like this, wanting to take you out for a nice meal instead of bringing you back to a dingy apartment.

But Jaafar makes a reservation at a nice restaurant, requests a table in a quieter section so the two of you can talk. He spends far too long agonizing over his outfit choices, changing his clothes three times before he has to leave. Even just the thought embarrasses him, feeling so overwhelmed at a simple dinner date, but there’s something different about you.

When he tells you he’s on his way, that he’ll meet you at your front door, you bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep from grinning as you stare down at your phone. You don’t think, with the exception of prom while you were in high school, that a date’s ever come to your doorway like this.

You’re grateful for his heads up, scurrying around to make sure everything you can see from the front door looks clean and organized. Your bedroom is another story, looking as if a tornado has ripped through your wardrobe with the amount of clothes thrown around. You feel out of practice, like you’ve never been asked out before, because when you think about it, you really haven’t, at least not at this caliber.

Sure, you’ve gone on dates and had relationships that lasted a few months, but no one’s ever treated you like this. You’re already amazed, and he hasn’t even picked you up yet. The last date you’d gone on, you’d gotten an Uber and your date had shown up ten minutes late looking like he’d rolled out of bed. 

It had almost been enough to make you swear off dating, but then you’d met Jaafar at that party.

Meeting you at the door, flowers in hand, Jaafar’s speechless when he sees you. You look ethereal, and it makes him feel a little better knowing that second guessing his outfit no less than a thousand times paid off. At the end of the day, he just wanted you to feel like you were cared for, that he was doing everything in his power to make sure you know how he feels about you.

Taking the flowers when he offers them to you, you’re grateful for the excuse to look for a vase so you can grin to yourself like a crazy person. Racking your brain, you can’t think of the last time a boy brought you flowers. You set them up in some water and place them on the kitchen table, where they’ll catch the light and you can admire them all day long.

Now, though, there’s something more important for you to admire. You spend almost the entire drive ogling Jaafar, letting your eyes rove across his face as he focuses on the road. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he can feel you staring, and it makes his chest feel all warm, makes his heart thud against his rib cage.

He feels nervous in ways he can’t explain, because all he wants to do is make a good first impression. Really, what he wants is for you to agree to a second date, and then a third, and then forever, but it all starts with the first date.

Deep down, though, he’s not treating you any differently than he’d treat any other date. He’s been raised to open doors and bring flowers and pull out chairs, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Sure, he’s bringing his absolute a-game because it’s you, but he’s simply treating you like a gentleman because that’s what you deserve.

To him, it feels like the bare minimum, but it’s rocking your entire world.

After he parks, he gets out of the car and makes his way to the passenger side. You open the door before he can get there, though, and you smile self-consciously when he huffs out a laugh.

“I woulda gotten that,” he says it like it’s obvious as you slide out of the car, shutting the door behind you. Because to him, it is obvious, to open your door for you and help you from the car, because that’s what any gentleman would do.

“Oh,” you respond, absolutely shocked at the notion of a date opening the car door for you, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he grins, reaching for your hand, “it just means I have to be quicker next time.”

Just like that, you’re at ease again as you walk the few blocks towards the restaurant. It’s the perfect summer evening, sunny and breezy and warm, and the two of you get so wrapped up in your conversation that you’re a little surprised when you realize you’ve already made it to your destination. Jaafar steps around you and pulls the door open, and the gesture makes your heart flutter.

Jaafar catches the way you smile, and the sight fills him with pride and a little tinge of sadness because it’s obvious that no one’s ever treated you this way and to him, it’s like second nature. Jaafar vows to change that for you, to always make sure you know exactly how much he cares for you, how much he respects you, because it’s the least he can do.

He’d give you the world if he could, but for now he settles for opening doors and pulling out chairs, bringing you flowers and learning your go-to drink orders.

The two of you get shown to your table, and Jaafar makes sure to pull your chair out for you. That same smile blooms on your face, a little shy and self-conscious and so full of affection, he just has to smile back.

It makes him think, as you look over the menu, about how you’ve clearly never been treated right. He knows he’s a few years older than the people you usually date, but it’s not as if he’s recently learned manners, recently figured out how to treat someone when you ask them out. It absolutely baffles him that this is all so new to you, when you should have been treated like this from the very beginning.

As you scan over the prices on the menu, you’re reminded of the times where your date has asked you to split the bill unexpectedly at the end of the date, after being the one to ask you out in the first place. You know that Jaafar would never do that to you. You’re sure that even if this was the worst date of all time, even though it’s already far surpassed any date you’ve ever been on, he’d still pay the bill and drive you home and say you look lovely, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

Over the course of the evening, the two of you relax, finding that steady, comfortable rhythm you’d both noticed when you first met. It seems like suddenly, you’ve known each other for years, and you don’t think you’ve ever had such an instant connection with someone before. He makes you laugh, he truly listens when you talk, and he looks at you like you’re something worthy of being admired. 

Any apprehension that had been pressed into you by memories of the failed dates of your past evaporates, and you end up ordering dessert. Unable to make up your mind, Jaafar orders one of each that you’d been torn between and you split them, and it’s such a sweet, simple gesture it makes you feel a little bit nauseous with affection.

With the plates spread out between you, the two of you start trading your dating horror stories, all of the failures and awkward moments you can never seem to forget. Really, before now, you could never seem to escape from those dates, but you have a feeling you’ll never go through those experiences again.

“It’s happened to me, like four or five times,” you say, using your spoon to scoop up more of the whipped cream on the plate. Across from you, Jaafar chokes on his drink in his shock. He coughs a few times and sets his glass down, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“You’ve split the bill four or five times?” He asks through his coughing, still trying to regain his composure, his sense of equilibrium. The thought of anyone having to split the bill on a date after being the one to get asked out, especially when it’s you, is absolutely unbelievable to him. You could have ordered everything on the menu, and he would have happily paid for it, because that’s the treatment that you deserve.

“Mhm,” you nod, sticking the spoon in your mouth, “and once, I got coffee with this guy and I forgot my wallet.”

Jaafar nods, taking a sip of water. You wait until he’s set the glass back down, certain what you say next would cause another coughing fit.

“He paid, and then sent me a Venmo request for eight dollars.” You were right with your guess, and you can read Jaafar’s shock on his face, plain as day. His mouth dropped open momentarily, before its replaced with a smile at the sound of your laughter, which floats around the two of you like music notes in a cartoon love story.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says adamantly, reaching for your hands across the table. A shiver of delight races down your spine when your fingers touch.

“Wanna hear the worst part?” You ask with a grin, eyes flitting between your interlocked fingers and Jaafar’s face in the warm, low lighting of the restaurant.

“That wasn’t the worst part?”

“My coffee only cost seven-fifty.”

Jaafar squeezes his hand around yours, and another peal of laughter bursts from you. He wants to bottle up that sound, wants to memorize it and play it over and over again. He could never get sick of that noise, could never get sick of you. Even after only a few weeks of knowing each other, even after a single date, he knows it’s the truth.

And sitting across from him, being treated like you’re something precious, someone worth love and attention and respect, you know it too.

this dynamic is so so so fun omgggg thank you for this request i absolutely loved writing it!! feel free to send in more age gap jaafar requests they're my fav right now for sure <3

No one had treated you so sweetly, so kindly, as if you were someone worthy of the purest form of affection. From the moment you met, Jaafar has been a gentleman, through and through. A friend of a friend had invited you to a party, and Jaafar had been taking acting classes with a different friend of the host’s. So your paths crossed, and you were smitten almost immediately.

It would have been harder to resist the near magnetic pull you felt towards him the first second you laid eyes on him, to not spend the whole night staring in his direction. He was almost unfairly attractive, the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen by far. Jaafar caught on quickly, felt your gaze on him from across the room and it made him feel shy in ways he’s never known.

Building up his courage, trying to come up with an opening line that wasn’t cheesy or lame, Jaafar eventually made his way over to where you stood in a corner, talking with some friends away from the rest of the room.

“Want a drink?” He offers, extending his hand out to you. For a split second, you hesitate, bowled over by just how perfect he looked up close. But then you slot your hand into his, and it was like the last two pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.

He pulls you away from the crowds, takes you somewhere quiet. Jaafar can’t remember the last time he’s been to a house party like this, all loud and packed and full of alcohol. He also can’t remember ever feeling the way he feels about you.

After spending the whole night talking, you exchange numbers and make a plan to meet up again, for a real date. You practically squeal when you see his text asking you out, feeling like a kid again with your first crush, almost vibrating with excitement and anticipation. You can’t remember the last time anyone asked you out like this, wanting to take you out for a nice meal instead of bringing you back to a dingy apartment.

But Jaafar makes a reservation at a nice restaurant, requests a table in a quieter section so the two of you can talk. He spends far too long agonizing over his outfit choices, changing his clothes three times before he has to leave. Even just the thought embarrasses him, feeling so overwhelmed at a simple dinner date, but there’s something different about you.

When he tells you he’s on his way, that he’ll meet you at your front door, you bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep from grinning as you stare down at your phone. You don’t think, with the exception of prom while you were in high school, that a date’s ever come to your doorway like this.

You’re grateful for his heads up, scurrying around to make sure everything you can see from the front door looks clean and organized. Your bedroom is another story, looking as if a tornado has ripped through your wardrobe with the amount of clothes thrown around. You feel out of practice, like you’ve never been asked out before, because when you think about it, you really haven’t, at least not at this caliber.

Sure, you’ve gone on dates and had relationships that lasted a few months, but no one’s ever treated you like this. You’re already amazed, and he hasn’t even picked you up yet. The last date you’d gone on, you’d gotten an Uber and your date had shown up ten minutes late looking like he’d rolled out of bed. 

It had almost been enough to make you swear off dating, but then you’d met Jaafar at that party.

Meeting you at the door, flowers in hand, Jaafar’s speechless when he sees you. You look ethereal, and it makes him feel a little better knowing that second guessing his outfit no less than a thousand times paid off. At the end of the day, he just wanted you to feel like you were cared for, that he was doing everything in his power to make sure you know how he feels about you.

Taking the flowers when he offers them to you, you’re grateful for the excuse to look for a vase so you can grin to yourself like a crazy person. Racking your brain, you can’t think of the last time a boy brought you flowers. You set them up in some water and place them on the kitchen table, where they’ll catch the light and you can admire them all day long.

Now, though, there’s something more important for you to admire. You spend almost the entire drive ogling Jaafar, letting your eyes rove across his face as he focuses on the road. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he can feel you staring, and it makes his chest feel all warm, makes his heart thud against his rib cage.

He feels nervous in ways he can’t explain, because all he wants to do is make a good first impression. Really, what he wants is for you to agree to a second date, and then a third, and then forever, but it all starts with the first date.

Deep down, though, he’s not treating you any differently than he’d treat any other date. He’s been raised to open doors and bring flowers and pull out chairs, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Sure, he’s bringing his absolute a-game because it’s you, but he’s simply treating you like a gentleman because that’s what you deserve.

To him, it feels like the bare minimum, but it’s rocking your entire world.

After he parks, he gets out of the car and makes his way to the passenger side. You open the door before he can get there, though, and you smile self-consciously when he huffs out a laugh.

“I woulda gotten that,” he says it like it’s obvious as you slide out of the car, shutting the door behind you. Because to him, it is obvious, to open your door for you and help you from the car, because that’s what any gentleman would do.

“Oh,” you respond, absolutely shocked at the notion of a date opening the car door for you, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he grins, reaching for your hand, “it just means I have to be quicker next time.”

Just like that, you’re at ease again as you walk the few blocks towards the restaurant. It’s the perfect summer evening, sunny and breezy and warm, and the two of you get so wrapped up in your conversation that you’re a little surprised when you realize you’ve already made it to your destination. Jaafar steps around you and pulls the door open, and the gesture makes your heart flutter.

Jaafar catches the way you smile, and the sight fills him with pride and a little tinge of sadness because it’s obvious that no one’s ever treated you this way and to him, it’s like second nature. Jaafar vows to change that for you, to always make sure you know exactly how much he cares for you, how much he respects you, because it’s the least he can do.

He’d give you the world if he could, but for now he settles for opening doors and pulling out chairs, bringing you flowers and learning your go-to drink orders.

The two of you get shown to your table, and Jaafar makes sure to pull your chair out for you. That same smile blooms on your face, a little shy and self-conscious and so full of affection, he just has to smile back.

It makes him think, as you look over the menu, about how you’ve clearly never been treated right. He knows he’s a few years older than the people you usually date, but it’s not as if he’s recently learned manners, recently figured out how to treat someone when you ask them out. It absolutely baffles him that this is all so new to you, when you should have been treated like this from the very beginning.

As you scan over the prices on the menu, you’re reminded of the times where your date has asked you to split the bill unexpectedly at the end of the date, after being the one to ask you out in the first place. You know that Jaafar would never do that to you. You’re sure that even if this was the worst date of all time, even though it’s already far surpassed any date you’ve ever been on, he’d still pay the bill and drive you home and say you look lovely, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

Over the course of the evening, the two of you relax, finding that steady, comfortable rhythm you’d both noticed when you first met. It seems like suddenly, you’ve known each other for years, and you don’t think you’ve ever had such an instant connection with someone before. He makes you laugh, he truly listens when you talk, and he looks at you like you’re something worthy of being admired. 

Any apprehension that had been pressed into you by memories of the failed dates of your past evaporates, and you end up ordering dessert. Unable to make up your mind, Jaafar orders one of each that you’d been torn between and you split them, and it’s such a sweet, simple gesture it makes you feel a little bit nauseous with affection.

With the plates spread out between you, the two of you start trading your dating horror stories, all of the failures and awkward moments you can never seem to forget. Really, before now, you could never seem to escape from those dates, but you have a feeling you’ll never go through those experiences again.

“It’s happened to me, like four or five times,” you say, using your spoon to scoop up more of the whipped cream on the plate. Across from you, Jaafar chokes on his drink in his shock. He coughs a few times and sets his glass down, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“You’ve split the bill four or five times?” He asks through his coughing, still trying to regain his composure, his sense of equilibrium. The thought of anyone having to split the bill on a date after being the one to get asked out, especially when it’s you, is absolutely unbelievable to him. You could have ordered everything on the menu, and he would have happily paid for it, because that’s the treatment that you deserve.

“Mhm,” you nod, sticking the spoon in your mouth, “and once, I got coffee with this guy and I forgot my wallet.”

Jaafar nods, taking a sip of water. You wait until he’s set the glass back down, certain what you say next would cause another coughing fit.

“He paid, and then sent me a Venmo request for eight dollars.” You were right with your guess, and you can read Jaafar’s shock on his face, plain as day. His mouth dropped open momentarily, before its replaced with a smile at the sound of your laughter, which floats around the two of you like music notes in a cartoon love story.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says adamantly, reaching for your hands across the table. A shiver of delight races down your spine when your fingers touch.

“Wanna hear the worst part?” You ask with a grin, eyes flitting between your interlocked fingers and Jaafar’s face in the warm, low lighting of the restaurant.

“That wasn’t the worst part?”

“My coffee only cost seven-fifty.”

Jaafar squeezes his hand around yours, and another peal of laughter bursts from you. He wants to bottle up that sound, wants to memorize it and play it over and over again. He could never get sick of that noise, could never get sick of you. Even after only a few weeks of knowing each other, even after a single date, he knows it’s the truth.

And sitting across from him, being treated like you’re something precious, someone worth love and attention and respect, you know it too.

this dynamic is so so so fun omgggg thank you for this request i absolutely loved writing it!! feel free to send in more age gap jaafar requests they're my fav right now for sure <3

You’ve taken to walking along the sidewalks after nightfall, letting the sounds of crickets wash over you as you breathe in the cool air of the summer night. The neighborhood you live in has always felt safe, but you take precautions either way, your keys stuck between your knuckles as you walk.

Sometimes you wish that your family would see you slipping out the front door, would ask where you’re running off to so late at night. The problem with the chaos of your home is that you’re outside of it, often feeling like a stranger within your own family. Tonight, you’d gathered a book and a flashlight beneath your arm and marched to the front door, past where your family was sprawled throughout the living room in front of the TV.

Not one of them took any notice of you.

Growing up, you’d thought that sense of loneliness would leave you eventually. You always told yourself that things would get better, that middle school would be easier, that high school would help you find your people, that college would bring a sense of freedom and clarity. You’d told yourself that you just had to make it to adulthood and things would make sense.

Yet here you were, twenty years old and wandering around your neighborhood late at night just because you can.

You pass by people sometimes, the kids you’d babysat in high school now old enough to be sneaking out to parties or the couple who lives on the corner with the two Golden Retrievers who always need at least four walks a day. You smile and wave, and they continue on their way, sometimes with acknowledgement and sometimes not.

It doesn’t bother you anymore, at least that’s what you’ve managed to convince yourself. You set out on your familiar path, winding through the streetlight-lit suburbs until you reach your favorite bench on the edge of the park, where you can set up with your book and your flashlight until you decide to come home.

You let yourself get so wrapped up in the story that you barely registered the footsteps coming down the sidewalk towards you. Your fingers tighten on the flashlight, feeling confident that it would be heavy enough to use as a weapon if you had to, but also feeling certain that whoever was walking would just pass you by the way everyone else did.

Instead, the footsteps come to a stop, and you’re about to shove your bookmark into your half-read page and spring up when you hear them clear their throat before they speak.

“Isn't it hard to see the words?” The voice asks, and you bring your attention up to the speaker. His voice is soft, and he seems vaguely familiar, but you can’t quite seem to place him.

“That’s what this is for,” you lift the flashlight, the beam shifting from the pages of your book to his shoes on the pavement.

“Oh, that’s smart,” he says appreciatively, shifting his weight back and forth as he stands.

“You can sit, if you want,” you offer, sliding down on the bench to make more room for him. He seems to think about it, hesitating before eventually lowering himself to sit beside you. You think about returning to your book, to simply sitting side by side with the stranger for a moment before finishing your chapter and returning home. Instead, you slide your bookmark in to keep your page and close the cover.

“How come you’re out here reading in the middle of the night?” With the light from a well positioned streetlamp, you can study his face some more. It’s still dark, and without pointing your flashlight in his face and blinding him, your eyes strain. Still, you can make out his features, his wide eyes and the cut of his jaw.

“It’s nice out here,” you say simply, “it’s like I’ve got the whole world to myself.” He hums beside you, taking in your words, and you feel yourself being studied the way you’d been looking at him seconds before.

“I’m Michael,” he introduces himself with a handshake that feels ridiculously formal for the setting, but you slot your hand in his and offer your own name. He repeats it back softly, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“So why are you out here so late?” You shift towards him as you ask, centering your full attention on him.

“I just like it,” he says with a shrug, as if he never expected to be asked that question, “it’s peaceful, like you said. Helps me clear my head.”

You hum appreciatively, still trying to put your finger on why he looks so familiar. You don’t think you know him, certain you would’ve remembered him if he lived down the block or graduated high school with you. There’s something about him that you can’t quite place, so you give yourself permission to study his face in the moonlight.

Or maybe you’re just searching for an excuse to look at him a little while longer.

The two of you lapse into silence, the only noises coming from the rustling of the trees and the cars bumping over the pavement down the road. You’re searching for something to say, hoping whatever you land on doesn’t make you sound insane or strange, though you’re not sure you have much to worry about given the circumstances.

You’ve always been an overthinker, needing to gather your confidence to speak up as early as kindergarten. Things that came easy for other kids were never simple to you. While you’d always performed well in school, excelling academically and working your way into a good college, you never had many friends.

It just didn’t happen for you, as hard as you used to try. You’d always liked the same things as the other kids in your class, followed the same fads and yearned for the same toys. But it’s like there was some sort of disconnect, and you never managed to hang on to many friends. You had a handful of classmates you’d talk to during school, but never anyone to walk home with or see on the weekends.

Sometimes the weight of your loneliness seemed to crush you, like a boulder on your chest. You’d hoped it would get better with age, but there was still that ache in you. It flared whenever you saw friends walking across campus together, or sitting together on the green or in their apartments. 

Just because you’d told yourself you were used to it doesn’t make it true.

“What’re you reading?” Michael asks, eyes straining to see the cover through the darkness. You’re snapped from your introspection, thrown back into the moment at hand.

“Oh,” your surprise is genuine, “it’s Dune. I read it in middle school, but I don’t think I really understood it.”

You can’t remember the last time anyone asked you a question like that, a question about yourself, and it makes you flare with self-consciousness, fully aware of your body and your breathing and the way you stutter over your words in your shock. Your body warms with a sort of happiness you’ve never known as you trail your thumb back and forth along the worn edge of the spine.

“I’ve never read it,” he comments, and you think it’s mostly for the sake of keeping the conversation going.

“You can borrow it when I’m done, if you want?” You offer, knowing full well that you have no way to give it to him, no way to get in contact with him, no way to speak to him again outside of hoping to bump into him. Still, the second the idea pops into your head, you’re speaking.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He speaks so softly, with a gentle sort of smile that’s enough to make your chest ache. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the steady, almost unthinking movements of your thumb sweeping back and forth across the cover.

A smile flutters across your face, fading as quickly as it appears. It reminds Michael of a butterfly, there in a flash and gone in a blink, but undeniably beautiful, even in the dimness of the night.

“Well, I should probably head back, can’t sit out here forever,” you say with an awkward little laugh, as if you wished you could stay right where you are for the rest of your life.

“Lemme walk you home,” Michael’s already standing before the words fully leave his lips. He extends a hand to you, and you take it without thinking, like touching him is the most natural thing in the world. His hand lingers for a millisecond, but it’s enough to monopolize your thoughts for days.

As you walk through the silent streets, you and Michael talk quietly, sharing little stories and learning more about each other as you go. You’re both guarded, wary, but part of you thinks that maybe the two of you could be friends. Beside you, Michael has the same thought.

This little routine of yours continues on. The two of you cross paths late at night, and you’ll walk side by side or make your way over to your favorite bench, and simply talk for hours. Piece by piece, you learn about each other, anecdotes and stories offered up like gifts.

“Any siblings?” You ask early on, Michael responding with a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he says through his grin, “three sisters and five brothers.”

“And where do you fit in?” You have a tendency of keeping yourself in motion, hands constantly fluttering around. It’s something Michael noticed the first time you met, and seeing your fingers twitching with movement now makes him feel relaxed in a way he can’t quite explain.

“Third youngest,” he responds, “what about you?”

“Same for me,” you say, a delightful sort of shock coloring your voice, “I’ve got an older sister, two big brothers, and then two little sisters.”

“Right in the middle, then,” he says, nudging you with his shoulder as you walk. The gesture is playful, and it makes your heart flutter.

You continue to reveal yourselves in little bits, throwaway comments that become entire conversations. You can’t remember the last time someone wanted to get to know you this way, so wholly and completely. Though you’ve never said anything, you’ve always thought of him as your friend, and it comforts you more than you’d ever imagine.

Over time, you tell him about your college experience, that you’re studying literature and spending the summers at home trying to save money, working the same job you’ve had since you started high school and dreading every second of it. You recommend books to him, and he dutifully goes out and reads them, if only so he can bring it up to you later and watch the way your eyes light up.

In return, Michael recommends albums he thinks you’d like, and you go out and spend your tip money on building up your collection. You keep track of your purchases in a little notebook, writing down your favorite tracks on each album, just in case he ever asks for your opinion. He always does, and it always makes you feel a little short of breath.

If he’s not with you, he’s thinking of you. It doesn’t matter if he’s working on music or hunting down a book you mentioned, if he’s laying in bed or eating or rehearsing. He thinks of you always, and it makes him feel like you’re right there when you need him most.

He tells you that he’s a musician, that he works with his brothers, that his days are more packed than he ever would have dreamed as a child. He’s careful not to reveal too much, not wanting you to turn and run or to alter your dynamic in any way. While he feels like he can tell you anything, the honest to god truth about who he is and what he does is a secret he keeps guarded from you. 

It had taken you less than twenty-four hours to realize how you know him, but you’d decided not to bring it up, in fear of shattering the careful friendship you’ve been building night by night.

Eventually, though, Michael trusts you enough to bare his heart to you.

Really, he thinks about you more than he should. So many times he’s found himself daydreaming about you, about what you must be like outside of your nightly walks. He thinks about the way you’d look in the sunlight, how you’d occupy your day. More often than he’d like to admit, he finds his thoughts drifting over to you, wondering what you’re doing at that exact moment.

And so he decides that it’s time to come clean. If he wants any sort of possibility of you seeing each other more often, he knows you need to be told the full truth. A few weeks after he first stumbled across your path, the two of you are sitting at the very same bench and he thinks that it’s as good a time as any.

He feels like his hands are shaking as he sets them on his knees, nervously feeling along the fabric of his pants as you settle onto the bench beside him. For days now, he’s agonized over whether this would ruin everything between you, if this would end the first real friendship he’s had in years. Still, he takes a deep breath and dives in.

“I haven’t been completely truthful with you,” he starts, and you turn in your seat to face him. Your brows are furrowed, confusion written across your face as clear as day, even in the moonlight.

“How do you mean?” You ask, wrapping your arms around your middle as if trying to keep yourself contained, anchoring yourself to your body.

“Well, I told you I make music, which is true,” he adds the last part frantically, desperate for you to understand that he wasn’t lying, at least not entirely, “but there’s more than that.”

Beside him, you seem to deflate with relief.

“I know.” You say, those two simple words simultaneously soothing his nerves and sending his heartrate skyrocketing.

“You know? Know what? How?” His questions come rapid fire as he tries to think back to a time where he might have let something slip or included a detail that would give himself away.

“I don’t live under a rock,” you tell him with a laugh, and he finds himself cracking a smile too, “at first I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t take long for me to puzzle it out.”

“Oh,” he says as relief floods his system, the adrenaline seeping out now that the terrifying moment is over. Michael realizes that you’ve known the whole time. That nothing about how you acted towards him was going to be changed by this revelation, since it wasn’t a revelation at all. 

You really knew him, and you liked him. It was as simple as that.

Apparently, though, it was an evening for confessions. On the bench where it all began, the two of you lapse into deeper topics. It’s not an anomaly, the two of you have talked about everything under the sun and recently have spent most of your time bearing your souls to each other. 

Maybe it’s the darkness that makes you brave, makes you able to say things you normally couldn’t, or maybe it was simply the company.

You keep lapsing into silence, and you’d be a fool to think that Michael wouldn’t notice.

“C’mon, you’ve been quiet all night,” he says, bumping his knee against yours in an attempt to bring your attention back to the moment, to bring you back down to earth. “You tired? Want me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s not that,” you tell him, even as your heart rate picks up at his offer. It’s not unusual for him to walk you home, but it never fails to make you feel seen, looked out for. You have to take a moment to steady yourself, and Michael picks up on it immediately. 

“You can tell me anything, you know that.” Hesitantly, he reaches a hand out and settles in right above your knee. The two of you have rarely touched, and the feeling of his warm, broad palm on your bare skin sends a shiver right through you, despite the balmy air of the summer night.

“I thought it would feel different than this,” you say quietly, scuffing the toe of your shoe along the dirt. Michael tilts his head to look at you, and you go on, “being an adult. I thought it would be better.”

The confession makes Michael’s heart stutter in his chest, makes him ache for you. You’ve said similar things before, revealed your loneliness bit by bit, but your words now feel like a knife through his chest. For as long as he’s known you, he’s thought of you as the most vibrant, lovely person he’s ever met.

You’re funny and gracious and kind, you’re witty and smart and thoughtful, and even though he’s yet to see your face in the sunlight, he knows you're beautiful. You’ve got a monopoly over his thoughts, even though you don’t know it. 

So it kills him that you feel this way, that the pain of being friendless has a crushing hold on you the way it does on him. It’s similar but different to the way he feels, like a mirror reflecting and distorting his loneliness back at him. Though the situation is different, the anguish you feel is the same. 

“It’s really not all it’s chalked up to be, is it?” His hand stays steady on your knee even as he has to control his voice to keep it from wavering. You give a humorless laugh beside him.

“I just always thought I’d have things figured out by now, that everything would make sense. But nothing does.” You turn to him, and he swallows thickly, unsure of what’s coming next. “Except for you.”

You’ve left him speechless for the second time that night. It seems like you’re able to see to the very heart of him, your eyes never leaving his own until you turn your head up to look at the stars instead, the pressure of the moment snapping with that single motion, things returning to their equilibrium.

Michael, though, is still left spinning on his axis.

“Weird, huh?” You continue on, gesturing vaguely into the empty space between you, “All of this. You know everything about me and we barely even see each other.”

It’s not a complaint, simply an observation. You’re more comfortable than you ever could have imagined with this strange, new friendship you’ve forged. Despite all the time you spend in each other’s company, you’ve never done the usual things that friends do, only ever seeing each other once darkness falls. 

There was never any discussion about the way it was going to work, it’s simply what happened. You knew that when you went for your nightly walk, you’d cross paths with Michael, and that was enough for you. Maybe it was strange that you’ve never talked on the phone or gone to the movies together or done any other typical friend things, but it worked for you and that was all that mattered. 

Michael’s head is still reeling as you stand, and he follows suit, walking you home as usual. When he leaves you on the doorstep, he’s struck with an idea that grows and grows as he makes his own way home, until it would be impossible to ignore it. He thinks about it for the rest of the night and the whole morning after, distraction seeping into his every action until he decided to do something about it.

When there’s a knock on your front door in the middle of the afternoon, you ignore it. Your parents are at work, but your siblings who still live at home are all running around, so you’re sure it’s a visitor for one of them. The knocking is persistent, though, and no one seems to be making any movements towards the door.

Sighing, you mark the page in your book and heave yourself off the couch. Swinging the door open, your mouth drops into a surprised ‘o’ as you see who’s waiting on the other side.

“You busy?” Michael asks, rocking back and forth on his feet, nerves flooding his body.

“Michael?” You ask in response, as if you can’t quite believe your eyes, “How’d you know where I live?”

“I’ve been walking you home for weeks now,” he says with an easy smile, even though he can still feel his veins vibrating with anxiety. 

“Yeah, right.” It’s as if seeing him in the daylight has made you unsure of yourself, made every other thought or memory evaporate from your head. “You wanna come in?”

“No, I just came over to stand here on your step,” he teases, and you roll your eyes.

“Oh, you’ve got jokes now?” You retort, and just like that, you’re back on your usual footing, the shock of seeing him beginning to wear off. It’s a novelty to see him in the daylight, and you let your eyes sweep over him from head to toe.

Michael steps insides, dipping down to take off his shoes and when he straightens up, you’re still drinking in the sight of him. His legs look long and lean in their jeans, and you feel your mouth going dry when you focus on his arms, the sleeve of his shirt wrapping tightly around his bicep. You’re so used to seeing him in a half-light that the brightness of the day feels like a gift.

He takes note of your staring, of course he does, and it makes him feel better than it probably should. It feels nice to be so openly wanted, so obviously appreciated, even if you’d never say anything about it. He watches as your eyes rove across his body again, filing away that glint in your eyes to think about later. 

You lead him through the house, trying your hardest not to feel self-conscious about the clutter everywhere, about the clothes you’d thrown on earlier without putting any thought into getting dressed. By your sides, your hands start to tremor, an almost imperceptible shake that Michael notices immediately. 

Before he can say anything, though, before he can calm your nerves with a sweet word, you’re pushing open the door of your bedroom to reveal the figure of a teenage girl lounging on a bottom bunk. Michael hovers behind you as you stare her down, crossing your arms across your chest. 

“Can you leave, Gracie?” You ask, prompting the girl to look up from her magazine. She looks like a younger version of you, the same curve of jaw and sweep of cheekbones, though her eyes are a different color and she’s styled her hair differently. Still, the sibling relation is uncanny, especially when she sets her jaw in response the same way you do when you’re frustrated.

“But I was here first,” she retorts, using expert little sibling knowledge as she makes no move to get off of her bed.

“Yeah, but I’m older,” you counter, crossing the small space to grab hold of her arms and haul her off the mattress yourself. When your hands wrap iron tight around her wrists, she’s quick to scramble up to standing.

“You’ve got a boy in the house,” your sister finally takes note of Michael, standing just outside the threshold of your bedroom, “what’s he doing here?”

“Don’t be rude,” you scold, trying your best to usher her from the room before she can ask any more questions.

“I’ll tell everyone you brought a boy home.” Gracie digs her heels in, crossing her arms across her chest like she’s won. You’re quick to show her differently, and Michael shuffles just inside the door to make room for you.

“Get out.” You plant your hands firmly on the girl’s shoulders, who pushes back against you with the full weight of her body. Luckily for you, she’s still a scrawny kid, and you manage to march her towards the door with minimal problems. “Stay out of my room.”

“It’s my room too,” the teenage girl protests, trying to stick her arms out to keep you from shutting the door.

“Not today it isn’t,” you retort as you lean against the door, hearing it shut with a resounding thud. You’re quick to turn the lock, resting your back against the wood as your sister pounds at the door with her fists. Michael watched the whole exchange with an amused smile, but then you turn your scowl on him, and he can’t help but laugh.

You catch your breath, finally cracking a smile of your own, and Michael takes the chance to finally look around your room, the bunk beds and the single pushed against the walls,eyes drifting over shelves and posters, trophies and trinkets. And then he finally sees the small poster tacked to the wall above the upper bunk, something delicately cut from a magazine, and he’s met with his own smiling face staring back at him.

He turns to you, eyes wide in disbelief, and it’s your turn to break out in laughter.

“How long has that been there?” He asks, eyes flitting back and forth between the poster and your form, doubled over in laughter.

“Oh, a few years now,” you manage to squeak out, and Michael covers his face with his hands, “Gracie’s a big fan.”

That comment earns you a groan, as if this is physically painful for him, but you can’t stop grinning. 

This is how friendship is supposed to feel, you think to yourself. The playful teasing, the lightness, the fact that you don’t feel the need to overthink every single thing you say, before and after it comes out of your mouth. When he’s silent for a few more seconds, an idea pops into your head and the next thing you know, a devious smile is curling on your lips even though Michael’s still got his face hidden.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think she likes Marlon better than you,” you add, heaving yourself onto your bed, the lone single in the crammed room, and leaning against the wall.

“Why would that make me feel better?” He asks, hands dropping to his side. For a moment, he seems genuinely distressed, and you’re worried that you’ve pushed things too far. But then he cracks a smile, shaking his head at you.

“Just being honest,” you say with a shrug, feeling a thrill of delight running through you when Michael’s smile widens. You pat the bed next to you, and although Michael hesitates for a moment, he soon joins you, leaning with his back against the wall as his feet dangle off the mattress next to yours.

There’s a little strip of skin exposed where your shirt had ridden up, right above the waistline of your shorts. Michael’s thoughts immediately drift over to it, thinking about what it would feel like to trace along the line of bare skin with his fingertips. But then you’re turning to face him, leaning your head back against the wall.

“So, what’s up?” You ask, and your faces are so close together that he can see every detail of your skin, everything that’s usually hidden in the darkness. It’s shockingly intimate, and it makes his head spin.

“Nothing, why?” He responds, watching the way a little piece of your hair falls out of place, stirred into motion by the lazy rotations of your ceiling fan.

“Because you came all the way over here in the middle of the day,” you remind him with a grin, feeling lightheaded with proximity. You watch the way his mouth moves when he speaks, and it’s like you’re intoxicated by the sight.

“Just wanted to see you,” he says simply, like this is something that happens every day. He doesn’t mention the way he’d had to plead with his brothers to cover for him before he’d slipped out of the house, the way he prayed that Joseph never realizes where he’d snuck off to or that he’d even left at all.

Now, though, you’re the one struck silent by his words.

“Oh.” You’re unsure of what else to say, so you leave it at that. Racking your brain, you can’t seem to come up with any other time where any other person decided to stop by just because they wanted to see you, because they were thinking about you and couldn’t fathom spending another second apart. 

“I want to see you a lot, actually,” he adds, speaking his mind before he gives himself the chance to chicken out, to sit and silently wish he would have been able to speak up.

Resting on the bed between you, your hand begins to fidget, fingers tapping against the bedspread repeatedly. Gently, Michael covers your hand with his own, and you flip your hand so your palms touch. You’re the one who makes the first move, intertwining his fingers with your own.

The two of you sit like that for a moment, as if you’re getting used to the feeling of each other, seemingly crossing the boundary from friendship into something more. You turn that thought over and over in your head, feeling yourself getting pulled away from the moment before Michael squeezes your hand, an achingly sweet gesture that grounds you again.

“I feel like I should take that poster down,” you joke quietly, unsure of what else to say. It’s so unexpected that a loud, boyish laugh makes its way from Michael’s chest, and the sound is so perfect you want to replay it over and over again. 

“I like it there,” Michael manages to squeak out through his laughter, and then it’s your turn to grin at his surprising joke. 

“You would,” you tease back, and the force of Michael’s giggling sends him sprawling, until he’s practically pinned you beneath him on the bed. You’re a breathless tangle of limbs as the laughter fades, leaving the two of you with exuberant smiles and your faces closer than they’ve ever been. 

You’re not sure who moves first, if Michael leans down or if you tilt up, but then it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing. It’s tentative and unsure, just a soft press of his lips against yours before he’s pulling back and leaving an inch of space between you that feels like an infinite cavern. 

It doesn’t take long before his lips are pressing against yours again, deeper and more insistent. It’s exploratory, pushing the boundary farther and farther every time. Michael’s ribs press against your own, his hips flattening yours to the mattress. You make a needy little sound from the back of your throat that Michael swallows down with his mouth against yours. 

He kisses you again and again, cataloging all of the sounds and movements you make. He takes note of the way you shift your hips upward, searching desperately for friction between the layers of clothing that separates you. He notices the way you whimper out when he meets you in the middle, a tentative drive of his hips that sends you both reeling. 

Accidentally, you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, biting down softly when he changes the angle of his approach. Michael groans at the unexpected sting, but he doesn’t pull away. Feeling bold in a way he never has before, he trails his lips away from yours. Dotting kisses from the corner of your mouth to the curve of your jaw, he reaches his destination when his lips meet the soft, exposed skin of your neck. 

This time, it’s Michael who bites down, just barely hard enough for you to feel the pressure before he soothes the spot with a kiss. He delivers all of his laser-focused attention to the side of your neck, biting and kissing and sucking to his heart's desire. 

And then there’s a knock at your bedroom door, and the two of you spring apart like you’d been shocked. It’s a miracle that you didn’t smash your heads together. You sit there, chest heaving with Michael hovering above you, looking as flustered as you feel. 

“I gotta change for work!” The voice of your youngest sister rings out in the silence, the only other noise is your and Michael’s frantic breathing. You’re certain that if you really focused, you could hear the hammering of your heart. 

“Can you wait?” You call back, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as strung out as you fear it is. 

“C’mon!” Your sister whines, pounding against the door again. You let your eyes slip shut as you sigh, before reaching up to trail your fingers softly along the curve of Michael’s cheek. 

“Looks like we gotta cut this short,” you whisper into the space between you, tilting yourself up to kiss him once more because you simply couldn’t help yourself. Michael shifts, giving you room to slide out from under him and make your way to the door, readjusting your clothes as you go. 

Still, there’s that sliver of skin between your shirt and your shorts, and Michael can’t seem to tear his eyes from it even now. 

“One word of this,” you hiss to your sister, blocking the open door with your body. You don’t need to finish whatever empty threat you were going to come up with because she’s already nodding aggressively. When she enters the room, she doesn’t even spare Michael a glance as she dutifully gathers her work uniform and scurries off to the bathroom to change. 

Shutting the door behind her, you turn your attention back to Michael. He reaches for you from the bed, gliding his long fingers softly against that exposed bit of skin around your waist. Your shirt slides up farther, and Michael flattens his palms against your warm, soft skin. 

The angle is awkward, but he kisses you anyway, as if now that he’s started he can’t seem to stop. He feels every breath beneath his hands, feels the way you squirm when he deepens the kiss ever so slightly because now he can’t think of anything except getting as close as possible to you. 

There’s a bump down the hallway, and the two of you spring apart again, a guilty little smile painted on your face like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Michael slides off your bed, reveling in the way you look in the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows. 

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” He asks as he squeezes your waist softly before letting go, already missing the feeling of your body against his the second the contact ends. 

“Yeah, of course.” Before your answer comes, Michael hadn’t realized just how worried he was about how you’d respond. As much as he loved the time you just spent together, he’s not sure he can live without your late night walks and your conversations and the way things seem easier when it’s as if you’re the only two people alone in the world. 

“Maybe,” he starts, pausing to wet his lower lip with his tongue and gather his courage, the way you’re looking up at him all wide eyed and eager scrambling his brain, “maybe we could go out some time? On a real, regular date?”

You feel breathless, and seeing Michael so nervous has you twisted up in knots, but the halting, hesitant way he asked made you feel things you’d never felt before. Giddiness blooms in your chest, and you don’t think you’d be able to keep your grin under control even if you needed to. 

“A real date?” You ask, and Michael nods shyly, “Not in the middle of the night? Or, y’know, in my bedroom?”

He laughs at that, looking down at you with a matching grin plastered on his face.

“Yeah, a real date. I wanna take you out, show you off.”

“I’d be alright with that,” you replay, feeling lucky when Michael just laughs at your attempt at coyness, as if you wouldn’t walk across the desert if he asked. You feel all sorts of dizzy, like you’re not sure which way is up, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Eventually, you and Michael peel yourselves away for each other for real, and you walk him to the door. Luckily for you, none of your siblings are hovering around, so you kiss Michael one last time as he stands on the doorstep, just because you can.

and a thank you to @urbanfunkchild who is the absolute best most sweetest ever and reassured me that this wasn't pure and utter nonsense <3