#soft!ted garcia

╰┈➤ 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵!𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴.

he reads a lot. mostly biographies and political theory — but when he's falling for someone, he starts scribbling private little notes in the margins of books he's currently reading. inside jokes. observations. faint “this reminds me of [them].”

he insists on making you breakfast, even if it’s just toast and black coffee, or even tea. it's less about the food and more about the ritual. mornings with ted are slow, wordless, comforting — the kind where he presses a kiss to your temple and hums under his breath as he cooks. coffee on the back porch as music plays from inside the house.

when he feels safe — truly safe, he slows down. he walks barefoot. he speaks more softly. he lingers in hugs. the kind of softness that says “I’m not in a rush to be anywhere but here.”

over time, his house shifts. your books end up on his shelves. his cufflinks just above your drawer. a photo of the two of you laughing at a wedding appears on the mantle. the place slowly becomes yours — without either of you having to say it out loud. he wants a part of you everywhere. at all times. small reminders.

after long days, the first thing he does is loosen his tie and unbutton his collar with a sigh that sounds like letting go. if you’re near, he leans into your touch without asking, resting his forehead to yours like you’re his reset button.

he is warm — gentle, romantic, protective — but he doesn’t offer that warmth easily. he hides it under layers of professionalism and distance. only those who prove they won’t misuse it ever get to see the full breadth of how deeply he can love.

if you’re cold, he’ll wrap you in his coat without saying anything. if you’re upset, he’ll make tea and sit beside you, not pressing, just being there. his love language is comfort — quiet, practical, and always sincere.

his favorite sweater is older than some of his staffers — soft from years of wear, sleeves a little frayed. his blankets are plush, his favorite mugs are chipped, and he always sleeps better under a too-heavy quilt.

pairing: Ted Garcia x reader

tags: allusions to smut, soft! Ted, the sweatpants ™, no spoilers, established relationship, intimacy

word count: ~ 330

little something for my angel @holbrk

You fall asleep with his warmth still clinging to your skin, the weight of him burned into every nerve. The kind of sleep that comes only after he’s taken you apart and put you back together again. The third time that night. 

But when you stir, the sheets are cool where Ted should be. The absence of him makes your chest tighten; you fear the lack of his warmth more than anything. You’ve grown used to it, like a lullaby that eases you into sleep, keeping at bay the monsters that sometimes come to haunt you.

Padding out of the bedroom in one of his worn shirts, your bare feet chilled against the tiles, you find him in the living room: sunk into the armchair in grey sweatpants and that yellow t-shirt, the glow of a late-night football replay flickering across his face. The night feels colder than it should, after a day when the desert heat had been unbearable. Ted looks up the moment he senses you, eyes soft, brown hues shimmering in the dim light, and steady in a way that undoes you.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You don’t answer, not with words at least. You just climb into his lap, curling small against him. Ted doesn’t hesitate, only wraps you up, big hands splaying across your back as if he could keep every piece of you together. He kisses your temple, slow and reverent, and rocks you gently until your breathing evens out. You feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, sinking into a warmth that completes you in ways you can’t yet name.

And it hits you how contradictory he is. The same man who knows how to ruin you with his mouth and his hands, who commands a whole town with the weight of his title, yet here he is: holding you like you’re something breakable, something precious. The Mayor of Eddington to everyone else. 

But to you, just Ted: soft, steady, and yours.

thanks for reading 💌

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Pairing: Ted Garcia x Reader

Warnings: PG (just straight unadulterated fluff, read with a cup of coffee or a warm blanket!!!)

Notes: Good morning, I wrote this little drabble in bed last night cause I love soft!Ted Garcia so much. Thanks.

──── ୨୧ ────

The sun filters in slowly — warm and gold through the linen curtains. He doesn’t get up right away. For once, there’s no alarm. No press briefing. Just the softness of the sheets, the weight of the blankets, and the quiet hum of a cicadas that haven’t quite stirred yet.

You’re next to him — curled close, warm and still breathing slow. Ted watches you for a moment, hand lazily brushing through your hair, fingertips resting against your back in a slow rhythm. No need to speak. Not yet.

Eventually, the idea of coffee pulls you both from bed. He’s already moving in that unhurried way he only allows himself on days like this — sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, as he scrolls through headlines he doesn’t have to read.

Breakfast is slow. Eggs, toast, something simple. He leans on the counter, sipping coffee like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week, stealing glances at you across the kitchen like he’s still a little amazed you’re here.

Later on, the two of you end up on the couch — him in sweats and an old “Welcome to Eddington” t-shirt, you curled beside him with your feet under his thigh. A vinyl spins in the background, something soft and jazzy. He reads for a while, one hand lazily tracing circles on your knee, the other thumbing through the pages of a worn paperback.

Eventually, the book drops to his chest. His head tips back against the couch cushion, eyes closing.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs.

And you believe him.

The rest of the day is filled with little nothings — a grocery run where he insists on buying fresh flowers for the table. You teasing him about how long he takes choosing a specific wine. His quiet chuckle when you catch him people-watching too long at the café window.

In the evening, you both fall into cooking dinner together. Music playing. Dishes clinking. He lets you take the lead and just leans into it — relaxed, hands warm on your waist, occasionally swaying with you for no reason at all. Forehead to your shoulder.

Finally when the lights are low and your plates are pushed aside, you sit on the back porch balcony with him. The night air is cool, the mountain ridge glowing faintly in the distance. He’s got a blanket draped over both of you, his thumb brushing your wrist as he listens to your voice like it’s the last soft thing in the world.