#romatic

“Bütün pencerelerde bekleyen benim,

ve

ve

o çalmayan bütün telefonlarda

aylardır konuşan da.

Kabul.

Bir kez yolda karşılaşalım

onunla da avunacağım.

Adımı sesince duymaktan vazgeçtim,

sesini duysam, susacağım.

Yel esiyor ama

değirmen dönmüyor.

Kuraklık bu,

adın ekmeğe dönüşmüyor.”

just come back, come back (to me)

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Author's Note: I need a theme so bad, not 'Whatever I find on Pinterest'... but anyways, hope y'all like this!! I'm still struggling with past and present tense, but it's chill, right? Anyways, give me ideas cause I'm running outttt (embarrassing, I know) so enjoy and don't be shy guys pls

Summary: After coming home from surgery, y/n is weak, drowsy, and recovering slowly while Chris takes care of her with quiet, constant attention. He helps her with everything—from getting her settled to making sure she eats, takes her meds, and rests comfortably. In the calm, blurry hours of recovery, his presence becomes steady and grounding, showing his love through gentle actions rather than words, as he refuses to leave her side.

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Okay, soft mode. The kind that feels like warm blankets, sleepy afternoons, and someone being so gentle with you it almost makes your chest ache.

The ride home is quieter than you expected.

Not uncomfortable—just… soft. Muted, like the whole world has been turned down a few notches.

Everything feels a little slow, a little hazy. The anesthesia still lingers in your veins, making your thoughts float instead of land. You rest your head against the window for a moment, watching the city blur past, but it’s too much—too bright, too fast.

“Hey,” comes his voice, low and careful.

Chris Sturniolo reaches over from the driver’s seat, one hand briefly leaving the wheel just to touch your arm—grounding, checking. His thumb brushes lightly over your sleeve.

“You okay?”

You nod, even though it’s more of a slow tilt of your head than anything convincing.

“Mhm… just tired.”

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, like he expected that. Like he’s already three steps ahead of whatever you need.

The rest of the drive, he doesn’t say much. But he keeps glancing over at you at red lights, like he’s making sure you’re still there, still breathing, still okay. Every time your eyes flutter closed for too long, he gently calls your name, just to keep you from drifting too far.

When you get home, you barely have time to register being parked before he’s already out of the car.

Your door opens, and the cool air hits your face.

“Don’t even try,” he says softly when you shift like you’re about to get out on your own.

You give him a sleepy, half-hearted look. “I can walk…”

“Yeah, and I can fly,” he replies, not even missing a beat.

Before you can argue, his arm is around you—firm, steady, careful. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t pull. Just supports, letting you lean as much as you need.

Your steps are slow, uneven, and the ground feels weirdly far away, but he adjusts to you like it’s instinct. Like he’s memorized your rhythm.

“Easy,” he murmurs when you stumble slightly, his grip tightening just enough to keep you steady. “I got you.”

And he does.

The whole way inside.

The apartment feels warmer than usual. Or maybe it’s just him.

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re sitting on the bed, and even then, he lingers—hands hovering for a second like he’s making sure you won’t just… disappear if he steps away.

“Okay,” he exhales quietly, running a hand through his hair. “Stay. Don’t move. I’m gonna grab your meds and water.”

You blink up at him, a little dazed. “Bossy.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, already halfway out of the room. “Only when you’re like this.”

You hear him moving around—drawers opening, cabinets shutting, the soft clink of a glass being filled. It’s such a normal sound, but right now it feels… different. Intentional. Like every little thing he’s doing is for you.

When he comes back, he kneels in front of you instead of just handing things over.

“Alright,” he says gently, placing the glass in your hands but keeping one of his underneath it, just in case. “Small sips. Doctor’s orders.”

You obey without thinking, eyes still heavy, movements slow. A bit of water slips at the corner of your mouth, and before you can even react, he’s already there—thumb brushing it away, absentminded, soft.

“Mess,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Just fondness.

He hands you the medication, watching closely as you take it, like he doesn’t trust the universe not to mess this up somehow.

“Good,” he nods after a second. “Okay. Now—lie down.”

You hesitate, glancing at the pillows like they’re suddenly complicated.

“I feel weird,” you admit quietly.

His expression softens instantly.

“I know,” he says, voice dropping even lower. “Come here.”

He helps you shift, guiding you gently until you’re lying back. He adjusts the pillows behind your head one by one, not satisfied until you look actually comfortable.

Then comes the blanket.

You watch, a little out of it, as he pulls it up over you, tucking it around your sides like you might fall apart if he doesn’t do it just right.

“You don’t have to tuck me in like a burrito,” you mumble.

He shrugs, smoothing the edge of the blanket anyway. “Too late.”

For a while, you just lie there.

Half-awake. Half-asleep.

He moves quietly around the room—grabbing things, setting stuff within your reach, dimming the lights. At some point, he disappears into the kitchen again, and you hear the faint sound of something heating up.

When he comes back, he’s holding a small tray.

“Soup,” he announces softly. “Very gourmet. Five-star.”

You squint at it. “It’s from a can.”

“Hey. Don’t disrespect my culinary skills right now.”

But he sits beside you, helping you sit up just enough to eat. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t get impatient when you take forever to swallow, when your hands are a little shaky.

At one point, you pause, your energy dipping fast.

He notices immediately.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, setting the tray aside before you even have to ask. “You can finish later.”

You nod, already sinking back into the pillows.

Time blurs after that.

The room is dim, quiet, safe.

At some point, you feel the mattress dip beside you. You don’t open your eyes, but you know it’s him. You’d know it anywhere.

His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers lacing gently with yours.

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.

Your thumb moves weakly against his, a small, sleepy response.

“Chris…” you mumble.

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

There’s not even a second of hesitation.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

And he doesn’t.

He stays right there, sitting beside you as you drift in and out of sleep. Every time you stir, his hand is still there. Every time your breathing changes, he glances over, checking.

At one point, you wake just enough to feel his fingers brushing your hair back from your face—slow, repetitive, soothing.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers when he realizes you’re awake.

You don’t argue.

You can’t.

Because you feel safe in a way that’s almost overwhelming. Heavy, warm, real.

And as you drift off again, his hand still holding yours, there’s only one clear thought left in your mind—

He really meant it.

He’s not going anywhere.

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hii guys… i know it’s been a while 🫶🏻 i hope you’re all doing okay <3 life has been kinda crazy lately, i’ve been super busy and stressed with school and everything, but i’m trying my best to get back into writing because i really missed it

this time i wanted to try something a little different and wrote a full fluffy one shot instead of my usual angsty stuff… and honestly it felt so comforting to write 🥺 i hope it gives you the same soft feeling while reading it

as always, thank you for being here and for your patience, it means more than you think 💌