#deh reader insert

Of course, the staying behind to continue to listen to the conversation was a conscious decision. He’d made himself comfortable, perfectly unseen in the hallway by you and Zoe, just outside the cracked door that emitted a sliver of light. You two had been doing this for years, since before eighth grade. God, was that right? You’d been best friends with Zoe for over 4 years? He shrugged the thought off as he lowered himself to the floor, choosing to sit—sitting wouldn’t attract attention, wouldn’t make any extra noise. It would swear him to secrecy, which is exactly what he wanted. While each sentence that left your lips was inaudible, Zoe was loud. She knew her entire house would be asleep, well, unless Connor himself didn’t feel like it. But she also knew that he wouldn’t walk over and tell her to shut up. Not with you here, at least. “Oh! I remember this!” she exclaimed, followed by bangs and crashes. “Your old sketchbook! I wanna see your progress! Show me!”

That’s right, that yellow book that was bound with little metal pieces. The special paper that never seemed to flap in the wind but could catch shading like nobody’s business. He could remember you sitting in biology at the large black tables, eyes squinted in concentration towards the back of the classroom where the windows were. He always assumed you were drawing the spidery veins of branches outside, noticing how with each passing cold day, they would get bleaker and bleaker, until he assumed you were drawing something that would look like broken glass on a page. But in the summer, at the beginning of the school year, the leaves canopied the trail that the track and cross-country assholes would take to “condition” for their meets. As the year would go on, the trail would be used less and less; around Halloween, it was always muddy, and then always covered in gross slush by the time Winter came along. He assumed you liked to draw in the footprints of the poor people who had to still use those trails after a particularly rainy day. He guessed it would make for a cool drawing, at the very least.

He could remember you doing that a lot, noticing in the fall light how your hair perfectly framed your face, the light hitting it in such a way that almost made you look more delicate than those glass figurines that his mom had collected when he and Zoe were babies. Your eyes would scrunch at the windows, getting that new twig barely notable by the passing eye, but everything to you. You must’ve drawn those same trees often—Connor didn’t usually pay attention to his classmates, but he could distinctly remember you sketching like that, day after day. That had to mean you did it often. So yeah, Zoe had a point; your art must’ve gotten better as the years went on and as you kept pulling it out to do a new study of some new art term Connor had never heard before.

Connor could also remember you in his house sometime over the summer, or was it last year, sketching something in the room. Zoe would always claim to be studying with you as he lazily made a sandwich after his hellish school day, and yet somehow still irritating Zoe. He could remember you trying to capture how the light just barely lit the room in a golden glow and attempting to get each curve and angle of the room just right. He assumed you used softer leaded pencils for the walls, giving it texture that it deserved. If Connor didn’t know any better, you’d be getting into some high class college for architecture, right angles so sharp you could swear it would prick your finger by just running it over the page.

And there was of course the library. You’d always sketch in the library. Sitting at the same table, you’d construct your artistry with nothing more than imagination, a pencil, and some special paper. He’d only been in there to get a book, any book, to convince someone that he was actually doing work and actually trying. Maybe do something for his mom for once, or perhaps himself. But you were there, carefully crafting your version of the bookstacks and cases around you. It was a solid 20 minutes of him looking before he could hear you uncap that special pen with the felt tip and black ink that could stain every piece of paper if you weren’t careful enough. The angles must have been perfect that time; pen is permanent. With another glance at the aisle Connor had been in, he spotted the book he needed: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. A nod to the librarian, and a quick glance back at you, he was off.

And then—

“Wait a second. Why are most of these done as portraiture? You hate drawing faces. And more importantly, why are they of Connor?!”

Connor misheard something. He had to have. When did you have the time, the effort, or even the means to draw him? Zoe was right, why draw him when he wasn’t anything special? Silence didn’t last long, Zoe’s demanding continuing.

“Some of these are dating like months, fuck, years ago?!”

He finally heard your voice through the cracked door as his eyes remained wide and trained onto one of the hardwood floorboards. “Zoe I can explain.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Zoe—”

“I’m serious, don’t go in depth about how much you adore my brother. I don’t want to hear it.”

Zoe bolted out of the room, completely missing Connor outside of her door as she did so. She stepped down the stairs quickly, stomping on every step as she did so, her steps almost percussive as her anger. The door nearly slammed in the draft that followed her speed, but Connor caught the white door with his foot, carefully making sure that it wouldn’t slam and actually wake up the whole house. With that same foot, he opens the door a little wider so he can actually peer in, curious about the sketches in question.

The only light that’s on is Zoe’s bedside lamp. There’s a soft glow around the room, similar to lighting a dozen candles and leaving them as the sun sets past twilight into dusk. The colorful clock against the pink shaded lamp says a harsh 2:06 AM. Had he really been out there for half an hour? His eyes shift to you, who is crumpled on Zoe’s bed. He doesn’t need to look closer to know, to understand that you’re upset. You’d just caused some kind of conflict between you and your best friend of however many years it’d been now. It probably looked like you betrayed Zoe, using her only to get to him. It’s at this moment that Connor decides to slowly step in, but is wary of the things that are on the ground.

Your sketchbook catches his eye, the beat up book open to a sketch of him, the shadows of his face darkened by a bold marker, the lights done by a hard leaded pencil. The date underneath the drawing is marked last week, showing off your progress beautifully. Connor can’t come up with any words at first. It’s…perfect, which sounded dumb to him. It perfectly took each aspect of Connor and threw it onto a page. If anyone looked at it, they would easily be able to tell exactly what Connor was like, exactly what his mannerisms were, and they would be able to easily distinguish one mood from another. It’s almost a brighter version of himself staring back at him, one who looks so confident but so lost. And Connor remained speechless, unsure of how to express his feelings.

Another minute went by before he actually said something: “Fuck, that’s really good.” A sniffle practically erupts from you before you look up at him. The two of you make eye contact, and in a swift attempt to grab the book, it ends up in Connor’s slender fingers. He begins thumbing through the pages, his eyes grazing over each and every line, every erased mark, every place you’d used pen instead of pencil, each shading variation, each curl you’d drawn; every single time you chose to draw him in a different light than he could’ve ever imagined. None of them were did in color, almost as if you were preserving the pages, as if you’d scan them in and color them digitally so you could get the blending just right. His eyes flew over dates as he kept turning, pupils dilating at each new sketch; the first drawing he’d seen was dated a little over a year and a half ago.

Then there’s one he can place; it must’ve been an exam day or something in biology because he could see the trees behind him, each branch perfectly placed, almost like someone had altered a photo rather than drawn it out. The leaves were somewhat there, the lush summer branches fading away into fall. But they’re there enough that Connor knows this was drawn at the beginning of the year—only some of the leaves are shaded in to show their differing colors. Purple was done in a dark grey, a softer lead, while green leaves were almost stark white, done in a harder leaded pencil. They were outlined beautifully by a pen, or perhaps many different pens.

Then it hits him—you didn’t care about the trees. You weren’t getting the perfect pitch of the ceilings in the kitchen that sat downstairs, memories burning onto the sketchbook’s pages. You weren’t trying to capture the world in a new light. You had been trying to get him in different shadings—a test in chiaroscuro. He had to hand it to you, each sketch was done artfully, completely taking each curve of his face and each line flowing directly into another, but in such a way you’d gotten every little thought that had ran through his head on that particular date. Connor’s heart started beating a little harder as his hands got a little sweaty, eyes still trained on one particular drawing and the way the pen swirled on the page. He licked his lips before speaking up again, not even bothering to tear his eyes away. “All of them are actually, really fucking good.”

He heard you shift forward, Zoe’s bed making that too familiar creak he usually heard from the other side of the wall. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he finally looked up and locked eyes with you. It was obvious you were upset—which was a dumb thought, Connor realized. Of course you were upset. Your best friend just stormed out of the room and down the stairs because you’d been artfully drawing wonderful images of her brother. Pink surrounded the color of your eyes, your waterline more prominent than Connor had ever seen before. It was his turn to study your face, each contour in the dull light of the stupid pink lamp Zoe had gotten when she had turned 13. Your facial features cracked, a smile finally escaping through the blurry clouds that had been drawn up around you. “I mean, I’m not an art critic or anything, but I love them.”

“Oh.” It was a suppression of something, Connor couldn’t tell what—your eyes flicked to the floorboards. “Thank you.”

He nodded before stepping forward, wire bounded notebook being extended out towards you. You took it gently, almost as if the moment would be ruined by sharp, abstract movements. There was a moment of nothing, your eyes meeting his again, before you started going through the drawings just as Connor had. No words were exchanged, they didn’t need to be, as he sat down on the bed next to you, admiring your hard work. He hadn’t gone through all of them, that much was apparent even in the darkness. Your style changed as the dates became more and more present, almost grabbing Connor in a new way that he couldn’t even fathom—when he was in a bad mood, the lines were sharp, almost making him look stuck in an abstract world that consumed him. You had started to include white pencil to highlight the lights of his face and the darks that seemed to surround him at any given point. There was one that Connor had been smiling, the stark contrast of grid to fluid making itself clear. White colored pencil littered that page, giving his cheeks and overall vibe almost a sunshine attitude. He wasn’t even sure how you’d done that, how you’d caught him smiling so long that you actually could draw it out. Your latest date appears, only two days ago before you start to close the book.

There’s a moment of nothing, completely dullness except the yellow that blanketed the room. With another beat, he looks up, a newfound fondness of you completely taking over, heart ablaze like someone had used your sketchbook as kindling for something—anything other than numbness. It’s now that Connor realizes he was leaning into you, getting closer and closer until this very second—faces inches apart and eyes scanning, searching, almost fleeing around memorizing each color of your eyes. The pink is almost gone, and you start to lean forwards, eyes not deciding what they want to look at: his eyes or his lips. The space is closing more and more, the process expedited as Connor begins to mirror your actions, the moonlight outside now seeming like the only thing that’s illuminating in the room. Before proceeding, he pulls away for a second, deciding that maybe he was just misreading cues from you. You could just be trying to get up to find Zoe, soon leaving the house and out of Connor’s life. But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want this to end, he wants to know the curves of your face, the way you look when everything is geometric and scheduled and when everything is fluid and free, the white pencil contrasted with the black marker, each level of shading on your face. He wanted to know you at your lightest and darkest, when the leaves are lush to the leaves die and make the windows look cracked from the inside. It’s another moment until he finally gets the grip he needs, asking you “Can I kiss you?”

You nod eagerly, hands already snaking around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. He resists for a second, a mumbled “I need a verbal yes or no. Otherwise I worry that I crossed a boundary,” escaping him.

“Yes,” is exhaled from you onto Connor’s lips, giving him full access to everything he didn’t know he needed or fuck wanted until this moment. There’s a level of softness to the moment your lips grazed his, the laziness of the night consuming both of you. Relaxation seeps into the kiss as it deepens, providing a sense of warmth that could only be described as rosy cheeks and whipped cream. It’s here that Connor realizes that his heart had skipped a beat, the pink organ working in tandem with yours, blossoming into something spontaneous and wonderful with you. Connor’s hands glide from where they were to your face, almost capturing the light you’re giving him, an ability to feel like the sun is inside of his hands as the kiss deepens further. Everything is synched—a puzzle finally put together by warm light and soft touches. Something erupts in Connor and he can only hope the same from you, it’s a sense of fluff, a sense of complete and total comfort and security, almost as if someone had come in here and wrapped you and him in a blanket as silent snow fell outside. It was heated, like a warm shower after a night in the rain, but soft, sweet, something fluttering from inside into the outside. It was almost like this was something long awaited, and better than expected; far better than expected.

Footsteps stomped up the stairs, and the air turned cold, a firm reminder that the world could touch them. Connor already knew what it was—Zoe was coming back from making hot chocolate downstairs. The darkness of the room returned, almost blinding to Connor as he attempts to smoothly get out of the room before Zoe sees and gets even more upset. Purples plague the walls, steps coming louder and louder as he practically stumbles out of the room, hoping that his sister wasn’t looking up as she went upstairs. With a sharp glide out of the room and into the complete darkness of the void, Zoe slipped in and began to talk to you about something he couldn’t quite hear.

Shuffling down the hall so he isn’t heard, Connor recounts the events in his head. Maybe that had been a bad idea. Maybe the warmth around you two as you kissed was just something to dwell on but never have. Maybe it was better this way.

        “What the fuck do you have in here?” He asked. Maybe your bag was growing a little heavy.

        But you failed to suppress a small smirk and answered him anyway. “Coins.”

        His eyes flutter from you to the bag and then back to your face. “... Gold coins?” He asked, unzipping the little pouch. Then he paused, before finally replying to you as he strode back over to his laundry. “Thanks.”

        “I want that back, y’know,” you said.

        “Yeah. Whatever. Sure. I’ll pay you-”

        “The rest of the bag, dumb ass.” You clicked your tongue, “don’t pay me back.”

        “Whatever.”

        So you continued what you were doing silently, debating whether you should plug in your headphones and turn on a podcast or something - or maybe see if this stranger will watch your shit just in case and run back to grab your laptop and plant down somewhere and see if you can knock out a bit more of one of your papers. You stood there in silent debate, realizing that this dude still had all of your change in his hands right as you went to find your quarters. You looked back to him, and he was just standing there, toying with the zipper mindlessly. He didn’t look back to you.

        “Yo. I’d like to do laundry, dude.”

        He looked back to you. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

        The next thing you felt was your bag hitting your chest, and you watched this dude smirk as he turned back to what he was doing, now finding his phone and fumbling around aimlessly with it instead. You debated asking his name - but in the end, you really didn’t care at that time. He finished his laundry, thanked you for your shit, and then walked out - hopefully with a plan to fold that shit once he got back to his dorm room. You plugged in your headphones, and left the sound of three brothers distract you from the bullshit amount of time you’d be sitting here. Could you leave? Sure. Did you trust it? Absolutely not - not after the last time when some asshole stole one of your hoodies. Sure, you got it back - but not without a few stains that you immediately struggled to wash out, causing for you to waste a fuck-ton of change with multiple washes.

        The next time you met Connor was late at night inside a coffee shop that wasn’t too far from your campus. The one in the building was closed, and you’d rather go buy a cup from wherever rather than try to find any coffeemaker and make it for yourself. Honestly, you just didn’t want to wake anyone up with the smell of burnt coffee - that would be a string of apologies you didn’t want to have to make. So you sunk into your boots, shoved your wallet into your sweatpants pocket, and set out to the nearest place you could find that was open - a small local joint, according to your phone. You were relieved to find that it was in fact open, and escaped into the shop, the sweet smell of coffee greeting you. The tired eyes of the barista greeted you, and you felt bad for coming in so late - how much longer was this place open anyhow?

        She let out a soft sigh, stretching as she walked over to greet you. College student. You could feel the exhaustion radiating off of her. You glanced at her name tag - Joanne - before she finally greeted you. She rolled her shoulders back, the soft pop audible even to you as she forced a smile, “welcome to the Bean Hut,” she said, “what can I get for ya’?”

        You glanced to the menu, rocking back and forth as you searched for something. You rattled off your order, trying to keep it as simple as you could so that she wouldn’t have to strain herself too much - because jesus, you were actually starting to get concerned for her health. You glanced over to the emptying case of different treats. She caught your gaze as she punched in your order, pausing as she debated something internally.

        “If you want something, get it. We throw away what we don’t sell,” she said, “waste of food but, fuck, what can you do?”

        “How much is the banana nut bread?” You asked. She rattled off a price, so you bought a slice for your roommate and a chocolate croissant for yourself, watching her unfold a paper bag with THE BEAN HUT printed on the front in stereotypical hipster coffee shop font. After a moment, you hurried and unfurled your money, handing it to her as you heard the front door of the shop open with a jingle, and glanced over your shoulder while taking the bag from her.

        You hadn’t introduced yourself to him before, as you didn’t have the chance to, but you immediately recognized the stranger as being laundry-boy. How many lanky dudes with man-buns were there on campus anyhow? Besides, you really couldn’t forget how fucking cold his eyes were. He scanned your face, taking in each detail as he tried to pin something to you because you were familiar but he just couldn’t pinpoint where.

        “Welcome to the Bean Hut-” Joanne had begun, only for Connor to glance from her to you, “oh. Connor. The usual?” She asked. 

        “Yeah - hot chocolate and a-”

        “A vanilla bean scone,” she finished, already in the process of punching in his total, “I know.”

        You looked over to this Connor, jamming your hands into your pockets, “are you gonna need some extra change this time, Connor?” It was dumb and it was nothing but it was enough to get his attention, as you caught his eyes flickering to you for a second as he opened his wallet.

        He pulled his card out of his wallet, handing it over to Joanne to run. He sort of smiled and said, “thought I recognized you,” before turning to face you. “I’m good. Thanks.”

        You weren’t sure if he was being friendly or what. That’s just how this dude seemed to speak - sorta unwavering, always with cold eyes and his hands hidden away in his jacket or jean pockets no matter what. But you just sort of forced a smile, rocking back and forth on your heels as you glanced over to Joanne, busy at work with making your drinks. “You come here a lot?” You asked, looking back to Connor.

        “Yeah. Usually.” 

        “Busy?”

        “No,” he sort of shrugged, “I just like the hot chocolate.” He left it at that, not pushing forward. You were a stranger - he didn’t have to spill his entire life story to you. This was just a fluke in fate, a mistake where your paths crossed again and it probably wasn’t meant to happen. At least, that’s what Connor thought - you looked like you were nothing like him, bundled up in warm sleepwear while he was stuck looking like he was going out for the night again. Connor didn’t do that. Connor didn’t like going out with his roommate to parties, he didn’t care for drinking unless he was home or somewhere he couldn’t fuck things up. You sucked in your cheeks, giving him a once-over.

        The first time you’d seen Connor, he’d only been in a t-shirt and sweatpants - the usual college attire, you’d come to learn - but now he stood before you in jeans that were baggy at the knee and ripped (factory ripped, you’d decided at the lack of fraying), leather jacket over a unzipped hoodie over plaid, and worn leather boots that you could see staring to stretch away from the soles, begging to be replaced soon. You finally spoke up, cutting through the awkward silence that had drawn between you, “going somewhere?”

        “Didn’t change.” He looked over to you, “are you working on a paper or-”

        “Yep,” you popped the ‘p’, “research paper. Physics. It’s boring.”

        “Boring?”

        “To most people, yeah.” You shrugged, “I mean, it’s cool and all, but I don’t even need it for my major. I just wanted the science credit-”

        “So you chose physics.” Connor stared at you with bewilderment, “y’know, there’s easier classes on campus-”

        “I took AP Physics my senior year in high school. I’m not going in blind, hon,” you tried to suppress the smallest little smile. He just stood there, watching you badly fighting back a smile, and then the crumple of a paper bag caught his attention as Joanne slid a medium-sized coffee-cup over to you, and then a bag to Connor, before turning back to her job.

        You barely had the time to take your drink and turn before Connor stopped you. “Hey,” he’d called, causing you to glimpse back at him over your shoulder. “It’s Connor.” He said, reaching back to the counter behind him, “my name- I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “Connor Murphy.”

        After a moment, you smiled. “[y/n],” you said, “nice to meet you, Murphy.” Then you were gone, the soft chime of a bell marking your exit as you took your walk back to your dorm. Connor Murphy. You committed the name to memory. Something told you that you’d meet him again - somehow. You lifted your cup to your lips, fighting back to urge to tear it away as the burning liquid spilled onto your tongue as you let the warm caffeine seep into your body, into your entire being. You’d have to go back sometimes. Maybe you’d run into Connor again. 

        If you were honest, you’d never been that much of a party person. Or, well, rather - you’d never been a ‘let’s go party with complete strangers and get wasted’ kind of person. Parties with friends? You were down - but now you were sitting in the corner of a room with a red cup in your hand, guarding the drink with your life. You’d lost sight of your roommate, slightly cursing that fact since she’d asked for you to keep an eye on her if she started drinking - which had happened almost ten minutes after the two of you arrived. On the better side of the spectrum, she’d worked up the confidence to finally talk that guy in her intro to theatre history class that you could tell was into her, and maybe they’d be making out somewhere. On the other hand, you’d get up and find her sometime soon, ditching your drink for the night because it was shitty beer, not even the kind of stuff that you could normally stomach. You’d hoped that maybe someone would have pitched in, maybe brought wine coolers or something with any more flavor than that sad grain water shit. But you’d stopped looking after a while, dodging between drunk freshmen and listening to girls coo over the smallest things - which made you fight back a smile, because drunk girls were always adorable in your opinion, some getting more giggly, and on the rare occasion you’d had one asked if you’d eat and try to feed you peanuts when you’d admit that you hadn’t. It was a sweet notion - fuck anyone who said that drunk girls were embarrassing. You’d punch a fucker for harassing a drunk girl, or any girl.

        The music seemed to increase in volume after minutes, leading you to finally push yourself out of your seat, finding the kitchen and dumping the shitty beer into a sink before you wandered with the intent of finding your roommate. To your surprise, she’d been sitting out back with journalism-dude’s arm around her shoulder, laughing at some video on his phone, headphones shared between them. You only smiled as you turned, wandering around inside with the hope of finding somewhere quiet. Bedrooms were a no-go, since you didn’t want to walk in on anyone fucking (the risk alone was too much for you, because how do you walk away from that sort of thing? You weren’t sure.) and bathrooms were only a somewhat safer bet. After a while of wandering, you’d finally found an unlocked bathroom that seemed empty when you knocked. And lo and behold, you opened the door to find a certain scrawny dude sitting in the bathtub, phone now pressed to his stomach as you pushed your way inside.

        “Are you fucking stalking me?” Connor said, staring at you with furrowed brow as he watched you shut the door behind you.

        “Shut up, Murphy.” You hesitated to lock the door, but glanced back to him, “mind if I-”

        “God, fucking please,” he scowled, before shifting slightly, giving you enough room to sit beside him if you wanted.

        You weren’t about to turn the offer down. The door clicked locked, and you crossed the tiny bathroom to sink into the spot next to him, snagging your phone from your back pocket in the process. “So why are you here?”

        “Roommate dragged me here.” Connor looked over to you, clicking his phone on and off mindlessly, “some shit about wanting to get out and enjoy college. You?”

        “Same thing, I guess,” you shrugged, “roommate’s crush was gonna be here and she wanted to talk to him. So I came along to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble-”

        “And now you’re doing that by hiding in a bathroom.”

        “She’s with that dude and they’re watching something together. She’s safe for right now, dude. I’m not shitty like that,” you frowned, “c’mon, Murphy. Do I seem like the kind of girl to just abandon her friend like that?”

        He shrugged, looking back to his phone for a second. “[y/n], right?” He asked, finally looking back over to you. You nodded. He shifted again, pressing his back against the corner as best as he could. “What’s your story?”

        “My what-” You’d started, “Murphy, what the fuck-”

        “I’m just trying to make fucking conversation.”

        You stared at him, watching as he rolled his eyes and went back to his phone without a word. Fine. “I was raised in a town not too far from here, I took a bunch of AP classes in high school so that I look pretty fucking good on applications, and now I’m here. Nothing special.” 

        He glanced over to you, not really responding at first. And finally, he sucked in a breath, and put his phone down as he finally turned his attention to you. “Guess we have that in common.” He said, and you perked a brow at that. “The ‘nothing special’ shit.”

        “Spill your story then, Murphy.”

        He smiled a little at that before looking away, licking his lips before he finally settled on a starting point. “Uh, I guess - I’m from out of state, I have a sh-” He stopped there, “I have a pretty okay sister and okay parents,” he said, both feeling a bit strained for him to say. “I, uh, dealt with some shit in high school, aaand now I’m here in a bathroom at a party.”

        You shifted, trying to find comfort in sitting against the edge of the tub and the wall. “I feel like you’re leaving out details. C’mon. Spill shit.” You paused for a moment, “you say something, I say something. Go.”

        Amusement flickered in his eyes as he smiled again, “alright. I took tap for years as a kid. Loved it,” he said softly, “and then I threw that out.”

        You nodded, pursing your lips together. What could you tell him? “I have a dog at home. Her name is Pepper and she’s the best girl in the world.”

        “I played baseball as a kid.” He drummed his fingers against his leg, “and threw that out later, too. It was fun, though.”

        “Nice.” You hummed for a moment, mentally scrolling through your library of things to tell. “I was in a production of Cinderella when I was ten as one of the stepsisters. It was the best fucking shit, and I kicked ass in the role.”

        He chuckled at the thought. “I wrote a lot of shitty teen poetry in high school.”

        “I still write a lot of shitty teen poetry in college,” you smirked as you brushed hair from your eyes. “Shitty teen poetry is fun, Murphy.”

        You watched him shift against the uncomfortable tub and wall. “I smoked a lot of weed.” He shrugged, “I don’t smoke as much anymore.”

        “Surprise, surprise.” You rolled your eyes, “never saw that one coming, Murphy.” Before he could protest, you elbowed him, “I’m kidding. You only somewhat look like a stoner.” You let out a heavy breath, trying to come up with another fact. “I have a little brother. He’s in high school.”

        “I have an annoying little sister. She’s also in high school. Jazz band.”

        “He’s on the soccer team - but he has been thinking about taking art classes again. He used to draw a lot.”

        “I draw a lot.” Connor said, “considering I’m an art major.” He smiled at you, “tell your brother to go for it.”

        “I’m undeclared.” You let out a sigh, “not sure yet. Maybe I’ll major in English or something.” You couldn’t fight back a smile, “can you draw me?”

        “Can I? Yeah, definitely, if you’re paying.”

        “Guess my poor college ass is just gonna have to take a rain check, Murphy.” You finally stole a glance at the time. “I should probably go check on Tessa. Walk me out, Murphy?”

        You pushed yourself up and out of the tub, spine popping in the process as it ached from the awkward curvature of the tub and wall. You stepped away, only to be surprised when Connor rose too, stretching as he stood, shirt riding slightly above his hips and giving you a glimpse of a sliver of skin. You tore your eyes away from that. You almost expected him to notice and greet you with a crooked smile and a “like what you see?” But he didn’t, double-checking his pockets for his phone and wallet - you begun to doubt that he would have even noticed your little glance. You unlocked the bathroom door, stumbling out into a quieter hallway with Connor in tow, and you wandered downstairs. When you couldn’t spot your roommate, you fished out your phone, only to find a single text there for you.

        Tess: journalism guy coming back w me, sorry

        You groaned slightly as you turned back to Connor, about to say something when he merely showed you his phone, sort of pinching at the bridge of his nose with annoyance. You understood why the moment you read the text.

        J: wont be back tonight. enjoy the dorm to urself.

        “Great. Our roommates are fucking,” you clicked your tongue, “or that’s just a really fun coincidence.”

        “He never shuts up about Tessa.” Connor jammed his phone into his jeans pocket, “c’mon. You’re staying with me, I guess.” He took you by the wrist, guiding you out of the party.

        “Cool. Fun. Sleepover with art major Connor Murphy. I’m down.” You said, excitement just oozing out of you - absolutely. Completely. Good thing he was guiding you, or you’d probably melt into a fucking puddle. You were glad Connor couldn’t read minds. He didn’t need to hear your stupid snarky shit.

        “You’re taking Jer’s bed,” he shrugged, “he won’t care. And if he does, then tough shit for him.” He released your wrist, letting you fall into step beside him. “Sorry.”

        “For what? Our roommates happen to be into each other. It’s just a coincidence, Connor.”

        He didn’t verbally respond. He only shrugged at that, and the two of you continued on your walk towards your dorm. Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in his room and he’s already stripped off his jacket without a second thought, before he started digging through his clothes. You didn’t expect for a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to hit you a second later, as he looked over to you, eyes flickering down to the shirt that’d fallen to the floor. Minutes later and he turned away from you, making some comment about how he would say something about the bathrooms, but he didn’t need to risk someone finding ‘some girl on their floor’ right now. You only shrugged, turning away and changing as quickly as you could. His shirt and pants were longer than you expected, honestly - and maybe that was because he was a tall dude. 

        “That’s J’s bed.” Connor motioned toward one, “take it. He can deal.” He threw himself onto his own bed, comforter shifting.

        You walked over and set your phone down on the nearby nightstand before finally sitting down and watching Connor. “You draw, right? Can... I see some of your work?” 

        He just sorta glanced over to you as he plugged his phone in, the soft chime filling the pause in the air. Connor shrugged as he stood, walking over to his desk, picking up one wire-bound sketchbook that’d been sitting in the corner, holding it out to you. “Class shit.” He shrugged again, before picking up a smaller, Moleskine one that had been carelessly thrown on top of his laptop, and he tossed that one to you as well. “Pocket sketchbook. I draw random shit in that one.” And he gingerly picked up another, a landscape one, and walked that one over, sitting down beside you. “Aaaand watercolor shit.”

        You set the watercolor book and his pocket sketchbook on the bed beside you, flipping open the wire-bound one he’d first handed to you. Pages upon pages of tonal work - different objects, all with shadows dancing in different places - greeted you before gesture drawings saw, messily scribbled down with features often ending up slightly smudged. Connor watched you flip through the pages, before shutting the book once they turned blank. Next was his watercolor - one he seemed a bit more careful with, from how he brought it to you with careful grasp. You flipped it open slowly, a picture of a landscape there to greet you: lush greenery, mountains, and a lake. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the small home-y feeling you’d gotten from it. When you flipped through the rest of the pages, there were other landscapes, and some paintings of birds, and then the last was a vague sketch of a figure, done completely in greys. You shut the book, and Connor took it from you to deliver it back to it’s place on his desk.

        The last was Connor’s pocket sketchbook. You slipped the band off, opening it to find the first dated image was from over a year ago. Page after page was filled with the most mundane things - a girl with an ice cream cone, her grin wide and hair being blown in the wind; a sleeping dog,, a boy with an arm in a cast seated at a desk, trees, sometimes even pill bottles.

        “That’s from when I was fucking sick,” he scowled, “and my mom wouldn’t let me out of the house to do anything.” He tapped the sketch of the NyQuil bottle, “so I drew the shitty cold medicine she’d brought me.”

        You nodded, flipping through. Every so often, you’d find pictures of the same girl: some of her lost in music, some of her just curled up in an chair. When you finally looked up to say something to Connor, he licked his lips, already knowing your question. 

        “That’s my sister, Zoe.” He shut his eyes, shifting uncomfortably beside you.

        “She’s pretty,” you sort of hummed, “you’re really talented.”

        He sorta chuckled at that. “Thanks.” He slipped the sketchbook from your hands.

        “Kinda sad I don’t have anything to show you, unless you wanna read some shitty poetry.” He snorted at the comment. You elbowed him, “c’mon. I’m not kidding. You showed me your art, I can show you some of my amazingly shitty poetry next time we meet.” And then you paused, looking to where you’d set your phone down, and picked it up. “You,” you began, “should give me your number.”

        “Why-”

        “C’mon, Murphy. The universe obviously wants us to be friends or something.” You picked up your phone, pulling open the contacts, “why keep fighting that?”

        He couldn’t really argue with that. He took your phone from your hand, closing out of your contacts and opening messages, punching in his number before sending a text. Barely a second later, his phone buzzed, and he shoved your phone back into your hands. “Done.” He stood, stalking across the room back to his bed.

        You rolled your eyes at the string of emojis he’d sent himself, all taken from your most recently used. Original. You set your phone down, before finally crawling into his roommate’s bed without a second thought. “Night, Murphy,” you’d called out, and then a lamp flickered off, and eventually you managed to fight the foreign feeling of another person’s bed enough to drift off to sleep.

        Connor was a welcome figure in your dorm room - one floor below where his was. He’d often swing by after his classes, glad to find you curled up in bed with your laptop set on top of your lap desk. At first it was Connor sliding in after he came from classes. Later it turned to Connor bringing you a hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant, and more dumb conversation to keep you company while your roommate was usually out. Other than Connor’s visits, the two of you had started heading over to the library for study sessions, or out to a coffee-shop just to sit around and people-watch while talking about whatever life shit the two of you could come up with. Sometimes it’d be about his sister and things he did when he was a kid, other times it’d be you gloating about your brother’s soccer skills. 

        Connor had stretched himself out across the end of your bed, phone resting on his stomach as he stared up at your ceiling. You’d been invested in this story about some shit one of your friends had gotten into back during your freshman year of high school, typing at your laptop without pause the entire time. He marveled in your ability to multi-task, honestly, because he knew he would have veered off into typing at least half of his thoughts up by mistake. You slowly trailed off, voice growing soft as you stared at Connor, his focus intensely placed on your ceiling.

        “You okay?” You asked, stretching a leg out to nudge his arm. He finally glanced back over to you, propping himself up on his elbows.

        “Are you staying here for Thanksgiving?”

        You were caught slightly off-guard by the sudden question, but shook your head anyway. “No - why?”

        “Just... wanted to ask.”

        “Are you?”

        He shook his head after a moment. “Mom wants me to come home.” He paused, “but if you were staying, I could have probably gotten out of it-”

        “Do you not want to go home?” You interrupted him, closing your laptop and moving your lap desk aside. “I mean - you could come with me if you want, but you’d have to put up with my dad asking if you’re my boyfriend.”

        “No - fuck, I mean, I want to go home. Just...” He paused, “I don’t know. There’s a couple assholes I’m not looking forward to seeing.”

        “You’re from out of state, right?” You asked, forcing a small topic change. Connor had appreciated it, and simply answered you with a nod. “How are you getting home? I don’t see you driving anywhere, so...” You sucked in your cheek, “flying? Bus?”

        “Flying. I’ve uh... got a flight to catch Friday after-”

        “I can drive you? To the airport, I mean,” you clarified, “y’know. So you don’t have to Uber or anything.” 

        He stared at you. You writhed slightly in discomfort, shifting blankets around you before breaking your gaze away from his. “Okay?” He said, “why?”

        “... Because we’re friends? Because I might be heading out that way anyway since I literally pass by the only airport around here when I drive home, and I thought “well, gee, I could give my friend a ride” since I care about art major Connor Murphy, my snark-master of a pal?” You smiled, “unless you’re leaving from somewhere else?”

        “No - I mean, I am leaving from-” He stopped for a moment, “yeah - that’d be great... thanks.” 

        Zoe picked him up from the airport. She’d been leaning against her car that’d once been his, arms folded across her chest as she stood, waiting for him to finally move his ass and get out there. The sound of his bag rolling behind him filled the empty silence that he’d grown used to, the weight of his carry-on luggage starting to grow more and more frustrating with each step. He’d only thrown a couple books in along with his sketchbook, and now he was regretting it because his neck was stiff and his spine was stiffer and - fuck, did he ever mention he hated flying? His ears had popped and everything was still slightly muffled despite the fact he’d tried almost every trick he could come up with. The idea of a hot shower was utopian to him. Zoe didn’t greet him with a hug, but with her usual steely eyes as she popped the trunk before sliding back into the driver’s seat.

        Great. A fantastic start to Thanksgiving break. Only more thrills would await him. He shoved the handle of his luggage down, almost carelessly throwing the bag into the back of his sister’s car. With a slam of the trunk, Connor ignored the glare that Zoe threw him as he climbed into the passenger seat, his carry-on bag nestled in the floorboard between his legs. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He was greeted with a picture of you, smiling with your arm around some kid - “hope you had a great flight! 2nd fave art geek here thanks u for ur wise advice of ‘go for it’” - and he smiled slightly at your nickname for your brother. 

        Zoe caught a glimpse of his phone, barely a millisecond before he clicked it off. “Who’s that?”

        “Just a friend,” he shrugged. 

        “When’d you meet her?”

        “... September. Laundry girl.” He said. Zoe nodded. For the few times Connor had spoken to his family (as for the most part, they left each other alone, and it had usually been Cynthia calling Connor for an update in how he’s doing before passing the phone to Larry and then to Zoe), he was glad to see that Zoe remembered his little story of you.

        “Oh.” Zoe pressed her lips together. He looked over to her, watching her expression. She was thinking - probably trying to figure out as much as she could from that little glimpse of you as she could.

        “If you want to ask something, then fucking ask.”

        Zoe landed on one of the most obvious questions. “Is she single?”

        Were you? He didn’t recall you having a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anything. Besides - you’d probably spend more time with them than with him, right? Connor was... fine company, but definitely not better than a partner. “I don’t think so.”

        “Is she your type?”

        “I don’t have a-”

        “You like cute girls who aren’t afraid to say shit to your face, geeky boys who are shy - but if any of them are shorter than you then you’ve probably thought about dating them at least once.” Zoe looked over to him, “you have a type, Connor.”

        As he sat there trying not to gawk at how bold her statement had been, at how sharp her tongue was, his phone buzzed once more. When he looked down to see your name, he was glad to see the words “(but if you ever need an out, i’m here <3)” printed across the screen. He fought back a smile as he texted you his thanks, trying to ignore the glance from Zoe that would surely be followed up with more questions. To his surprise, she kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut. Which, in his experience, usually meant that the moment they got home, she’d probably casually drop the “Connor has a girlfriend” bomb in front of their mom and then she would take to questioning him. To his surprise, she didn’t. At least, not until halfway through dinner while Connor was still prodding at the vegetarian lasagna his mother had made, absentmindedly answering her questions.

        Then Zoe said it, casual and cool after a long sip of water. The moment she set the glass down and begun to clean up around her, it just slipped out casually, “Connor has a girlfriend.”

        Before he could refute it, his mother was already beaming at the mere aspect of him having a anyone in his life. “Connor, is this true?” She was ecstatic and it slightly hurt him to crush her hopes.

        “No, uh, she’s just a friend,” he said, glaring at Zoe as she strode past to put her dishes away, “we, uh, met when doing laundry. Her building’s water got turned off for a few days,” he began to sink into his seat, “and she helped me out.”

        “What’s her name?” Larry piped up, surprising Connor. He was sure his dad wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. But the moment your name rolled off his tongue, his father nodded, mulling over your name alone. “Sounds nice.”

        The rest of the conversation was dominated completely by questions, making Connor dig up all the information he’d learned about you. The fact you were from not-too-far from campus, your little brother, what your parents did, your major - the fact you were smart and took Physics made his mother smile, because something about the idea of him (potentially, in her eyes) having a smarty-pants girlfriend pleased her. Most likely because it meant you could maybe help him and cue the whole study-dates turning into real-dates montage as the two of you fell for each other, since she had always loved the prospect of movie romances. He shoveled the rest of his meal into his mouth, thanking her before escaping to the solitude of his somewhat-empty room.

        Then came the day he ran into Jared Kleinman and his friends, overhearing the nerdy boy brag about “all the pussy he was getting at college” arrogantly. Fucking hell, Connor felt bad for whoever Jared’s roommate was - either the poor dude was legit getting sexiled over and over, or he had to deal with Jared trying to talk big game. Of course, as fate would have it, Connor couldn’t just walk into one of his favorite ice cream parlors, get his favorite flavor, and walk out - Jared had to spot him.

        “He-ey, Connor!” He called out, Connor glancing over his shoulder before paying for his cone and crossing the room, jamming his free hand into his hoodie pocket. Jared didn’t give him a moment to greet him or anything, “How’s college?”

        “Fine.”

        “Meet anybody?” He smirked a little, “I mean, I’ll be surprised to hear anyone would approach your psycho ass, but there’s always miracles.” He snorted.

        “Does it matter?”

        Jared feigned pain at the remark, “C’mon, Connor,” he immediately lowered his voice, “there’s no shame in being a virgin.” With a click of his tongue, he leaned back in his chair, now smirking again his stupid arrogant Kleinman smirk. Now he remembered why he couldn’t fucking stand Jared.

        Before he thought it through, he replied, “Yeah, well, good thing I have a girlfriend then.”

        Immediately he regret it as Jared immediately lit up, smirk never leaving. “Really? You got some proof there, Connie?”

        He nodded, and internally thanked the fact that you had a habit of taking selfies of the two of you - and was even more glad to find that he hadn’t deleted the few you took with his phone after he sent them to you. He never could have brought himself to do it - but he brandished his evidence, which was a picture with you pressed into his side, beaming with joy that you’d managed to steal his phone long enough for the picture. The phantom touch of your hand at his waist returned as he remembered just how close you’d actually been to him. “Her name is [y/n],” he said, watching Jared take in every aspect of the photo, just trying to scan the smallest hint that he was lying.

        Apparently, he found none. “Okay, then,” he said, “how long have you two been dating?”

        “Almost four months,” he lied, “we, uh, met in a gen ed class.”

        “Y’know, you could be lying, Connor. You two should Skype with me sometime,” Jared draped one arm over the back of his chair, “or, better idea: maybe you could bring her here for spring break. I’m sure your family would love to meet her, huh Connor?”

        He was gonna fucking kill him for being so fucking smug. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” Which translated to he’d have to convince you somehow because he can’t just let Jared know he lied.

        He waved Jared off, ignoring the cold drips of ice cream running over his fingers as he escaped to the safety of his - well, Zoe’s - car. The moment he turned on the engine, the gravity of everything he just said crashed down onto him. There was no way you’d actually agree to fake-date him, right? At least whenever Jared called or whenever you were here with him. And then the two of you could part ways and pretend the entire thing never happened and he’d come up with some elaborate reason why the two of you broke up. Connor let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and opening it to your contact info.

        You crossed the Murphy’s front lawn, avoiding stepping on flowers or kicking the small garden gnome, Timothy (as Zoe dubbed him), who peered up at you from between two little bushes of flowers. Connor always laughed at you when you told him how much you hated the thing because it kept fucking moving from one spot to another, and at some point you were convinced that he or Zoe was fucking with you. You scaled the tree, bark rough against your fingers and once you found the branch you always would rest at, you stole a glance to Connor’s window. Thankfully, it was open, and you were quick to make your way from branch over the small jutted out bit of roofing to Connor’s window, nearly throwing yourself in. The sound of your heavy footstep jerked Connor out of whatever thought he’d been in, and he glanced over and smiled at you. For once he wasn’t listening to his stupid, shitty, edgy music - instead he had pulled up a playlist you had made for him. You sort of smiled.

        “Really, Murphy?” You rested your hands at your hips, “no edgy shit tonight, you fuck?”

        He laughed. It was nice.

        He shifted over, laptop balanced in his lap as he tapped away at something. You slid into the spot next to him, resting your head on his pillows and breathing.

        “You okay?”

        “Yeah, Connor, I’m fine. Just tired.”

        He went back to typing. “Then why’d you come here?”

        You sort of shrug, as much as one can shrug while lying on a bed. “Didn’t wanna stay home.”

        “Then go to sleep, you little shit.”

        “In your bed?”

        “Where the fuck else? Sorry - I’ll go wake my parents and tell them your majesty needs a room to themselves, and my humble dwelling isn’t enough-”

        “Fuck off, Murphy, we both know you’d kick Zoe out of her room.”

        He laughed a bit. You sort of laughed before hugging the blanket closer to you. The faint smell of smoke seemed to cling to it. You shut your eyes.

        “God, you fucking break into my house and now you’re sniffing my blankets-”

        “Fuck off, Murphy. We both know you’d kick my ass if you didn’t want me here.”

        He didn’t respond.

        He felt the shift as you turned over, glancing over as you pulled one of the thin, soft blankets over you. He would have said something. He somewhat wanted to say something - but fuck, he wasn’t good with feelings or words for shit like this. He only watched you for a moment, watched as you hugged the pillow closer to your chest and shifted restlessly - like a fucking cat, he would have said - before shutting your eyes and finally finding someplace comfortable.

        An hour later he finished what he was working on and submitted it. Stupid essays. You told him a week ago to submit his stupid paper and now it was three days late but whatever - he didn’t fucking care. School was bullshit anyway. He shoved his laptop onto his nightstand, and found his phone - glancing over to you. Fuck, he couldn’t sleep. And he couldn’t fucking focus on anything other than the fact you were asleep beside him,

        Why the fuck did it have to be you? His best friend who found him when he felt lost and reminded him that there’s still time, that he’s been here for seventeen years and he hasn’t even had the chance to do so many things. And fuck, it sounded weird to him but there were so many things he wanted to do, but with you beside him. He wanted to go to New York and see a Broadway show again and dream about tapping again with you there, sitting beside him or cheering him on. He wanted to travel with you at his side, making stupid jokes along the way.

        He never really planned on you. You had been at his school, laughing at stupid jokes with your best - and only - friend until he had moved away in the middle of junior year, and you were left quiet and alone. He noticed you lived down the street from him that year, and somewhat wanted to say something to you - like hey, it really fucking sucks that you friend left you, why don’t we hang out or something? But something kept him back. The rumors flying about him, the snide comments from Jared Kleinman that he’d gotten used to - something just didn’t want him to drag you into that.

        So you did that yourself. You found him, bottle shaking in his hand and your fingers were warm around his. You grounded him and somehow soothed things over just for that day, and he was surprised when he found you back at his side over and over until you slipped into the seat next to him during Biology and never left his side. Zoe had caught him at the end of the day, telling him to talk home - and then you were there, telling her that you’d take care of him, Zoe and that led to the interrogation of who were you around the dinner table. He somehow managed to keep his temper even. You were good for that - you didn’t take shit and tended to knock him down when he really needed it. Fuck - he remembered hurting you once. He didn’t want to do that again, honestly.

        Connor glanced back over to you and reached out, pulling a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked serene.

         So he drew you. He liked to draw peaceful things - undisturbed forests and lakes and flowers. It was stupid but he doodled you and it didn’t quite capture you completely, but he fucking tried.

        Eventually he fell asleep.

        Eventually you woke up to an arm around your stomach and Connor’s chest against your back. Nothing tight - if anything, you sort of assumed he must have fallen asleep and moved. You didn’t complain. You sort of nuzzled down, closer to him, taking in the warmth while you could. Birds chirped. The sun peeked through the windows.

        Everything was nice.

        “Love you, Con.”

        You shut your eyes.

        And then, barely above a whisper, you heard him.

connor doesnt really know how to cook imo

like he can make scrambled eggs Sometimes and box mac n chee

but other than that, he knows Nothing

so a lot of cooking breakfast with him (aka: you make him get up in the mornings with the promise of pancakes or whatever and he loves ur cooking so like. dope) is just him leaning against the counter, watching you make shit

you rope him into helping you tho

like. you’ve started teaching him, showing him how to do shit basically and helping him finally put use to those fancy kitchen gadgets that his mom gave him (that she never really used, which is valid) 

tbh it’s a lot of sleepy cheek kisses because connor isnt a morning person imo

“con i need to cook” “just a sec” and he presses another lil kiss to ur temple before letting u go

sleepy connor is Super Affectionate connor

connor drapes himself over u when ur cooking

u, with a spatula: you ass

connor: <3

u: how did you do that with ur mouth.

connor: ;)

u, crying: connor please

anyway.

u tend to make breakfast for the two of you since connor would probs burn the apartment down from being Sleepy Bitch but he’s taken over helping w dinner and eventually taken over dinner entirely

and uhhh one morning ur tired as fuck from work or w/e

and you wake up to the smell of pancakes and maple syrup and bacon

and ur like ???

and u find connor standing the kitchen, having stolen ur apron, and just. making breakfast

and he turns to grab something and he sees you and hes like “fuck you werent supposed to see yet”

and its just a rly sweet little “you were tired so i made you breakfast” w a lil smooch

this went away from “cooking breakfast w connor” to “connor makes u breakfast once” 

back to tht original prompt

tbh if you give connor something to do (cutting fruit, mixing ingredients), he’s happy to do it? usually it’s like “u can make coffee/set the table/get the orange juice” or w/e but he’s happy to help with Actual Cooking when he can

sometimes you’ll just pull out a pint of strawberries and be like “quarter these” and he’s down to do it

“connor if you steal anymore pancake batter i Will smack you with this whisk” “then stop eating the chocolate chips” “never.” 

“wait CONNOR THERES RAW EGGS IN THAT” “so?” “CONNOR PLEASE”

sometimes you’ll let connor sleep in a lil bit because sometimes hes just a Very Tired Boy and he’ll like

come in behind u and wrap his arms around u and press a kiss to ur cheek

other times it’s him walking past you to go to the fridge and get milk, but he’ll stop and be like “hey” and you turn and he’ll press a little kiss to ur forehead and smile and its just a sweet moment

i like thinking about connor murphy who gets better and goes off to college and now has an apartment and you and he’s happy and he still has bad days but it’s the little things like arguments over pancake batter and chocolate chips that keep him going because

sometimes its the little things that matter the most

you were out with a couple of your college pals, since i’m gonna do some actual legal drinking for once

also im gonna resist the other route of you drunk flirting with evan, who is Not Your Boyfriend yet, and basically confessing that u find him cute

one of them is designated driver, n he’s just sorta chilling with his sodas

meanwhile, the rest of u are gettin fuckin wasted

pls remember to stay safe when drinking, y’all

and also make sure that, if u have friends, u have a designated driver (and someone who can take care of ur drunk ass n make sure u dont die. stay safe, y’all.)

ur friend is caught up talking to another one of ur friends, whos been drinking waaaay more than u

and ur just sorta finally cut off because stop

and u start fumbling with ur phone

and then u get the brilliant idea

lets text evan

he’s home at u guys’s apartment, probably watching tv or something. bein a casual evan. livin his life.

hell yeah

so you start texting him, immediately flirting with him

u probably tell him he has a cute butt

he asks if u have been drinking

ur like ‘haha yeah ;)’ 

he asks if he needs to come get you

ur like

;))))) take me bitch

evans probably blushing at that and asks again like

if you need a ride home

are u with friends

he basically starts throwing a lot of questions ur way

ur like

ya im w (insert ur pals here)

im good ;) unless u wanna ;))) 

and he just

takes a minute

before finally asking

when you’re coming home 

because oh my god, you’re a mess right now

u sorta shrug. u dont realize he cant see that. u ask ur pal and hes like

‘… we should probably go now.’ and borrows ur phone as he escorts u and ur pals to the car

n he’s calling evan, asking if he can like. help when he gets to ur apartment. make sure u dont bust ur ass getting up to ur apartment.

and evans there when he goes to drop u off

u immediately smooch

evan can fucking taste whatever you’d been drinking and he’s like “hey uh let’s go inside??? u should maybe drink some water”

insert some sweet like

evan basically taking care of ur drunk ass

this went from ‘drunk texts’ to ‘drunk reader flirting w evan a lot’

basically

u just flirt a lot

u kno hes flustered

evan gets cold really, really easily

he’s that friend that’s always cold, no matter how bundled up he is. throw blankets at him. maybe give him another jacket. save him.

and while i dont see evan being big into cuddling at first

he definitely loves it

he likes being little spoon, y’all

not that he won’t be big spoon - he will, he just prefers bein little spoon

but like

y’all chilling on a couch???

evan actually likes to have u like… sitting between his legs, ur back against him, because he just likes to hold u and maybe press his face into ur neck and just kinda 

exist

winter is perfect cuddling weather for evan

okay but uhhh 

evan who doesn’t really… ask for cuddles? he doesn’t really know how to bring it up sometimes, especially if you’re busy doing something - he doesn’t want to distract you or anything since you’re busy and what if he tears you away from your work and it’s something due tomorrow-

you’ve gotten pretty good at reading evan

whenever he wants to cuddle, he sorta gets very… contemplative, while staring you down and then fumbling with his jacket or with a blanket or, really, with anything he can mess with

that’s usually when you’ll ask if he wants to cuddle

and he’ll start off rambling about how yeah, he wants to cuddle, but if ur busy-

ur never too busy for cuddle time

evan also rly likes sleepy cuddling y’all

there’s just a nice intimacy about cuddling with someone when both of y’all are sleepy 

somethin pure n sweet

when evan starts getting Bad anxious at home, he’ll ask for cuddles and he’ll just

hold you, sorta grasping onto your clothes as a reminder that you’re real and this is real and everything is okay, he’ll be okay because he’s not alone

it’s not the most healthy thing honestly, since you can’t promise you’ll always be there, but it’s some progress.

sometimes he’ll imagine you’re there with him, talking him through his worries and soothing his anxiety 

it doesn’t help that often, but sometimes

he feels better

anyway uh cuddles

evan is a cuddly boi