Jet Lag & Jealous of the Air — Alfie Buttle Imagine
Thank you for my first request in awhile, this was so cute to write and I hope you enjoy this Anon.
Requests are open so please feel free to ask!!!!
You don’t expect him to look nervous.
Excited, maybe. Tired. Jet-lagged. A bit smug about being back from America.
But not nervous.
You’re standing near arrivals, scrolling on your phone, when you hear your name.
You look up.
And there he is.
Hood up, travel bag slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning until they land on you.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t do the cool walk-up.
He just drops his bag and pulls you into him properly.
Arms tight around your waist. Face buried in your neck. No space between you at all.
“You’re squeezing me,” you laugh softly.
“Yeah,” he mutters into your hair. “Stay there.”
He holds you longer than usual. Longer than is normal. His fingers grip the back of your hoodie like if he loosens them, you might disappear again.
When he finally pulls back, his hands don’t leave you.
He looks at your face like he’s checking you’re real.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he replies, quieter than you expected.
“Miss me?”
He exhales through his nose, trying to shrug it off. “America’s loud.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He stares at you for a second longer.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I did.”
The clinginess starts immediately.
In the car, his hand rests on your thigh the entire ride. Thumb moving absentmindedly like he needs contact.
If you shift, he adjusts with you.
If you move his hand, it finds its way back.
“You’ve been back ten minutes,” you tease.
“I’ve been gone weeks,” he replies. “Let me live.”
When you get inside, he doesn’t even take his shoes off properly before he’s wrapping his arms around you again from behind.
You’re trying to make tea.
He’s attached to your waist.
“You can sit down,” you tell him.
“No.”
“You’re jet-lagged.”
“Don’t care.”
His chin rests on your shoulder. His hands slide under your hoodie just enough to feel your skin, warm and grounding.
You turn slightly to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, tired but calm.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods against you.
“Just missed you.”
You try to walk to the living room.
He follows.
You sit down.
He sits right next to you.
When you shift to grab the remote, he pulls you back by the wrist gently.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m still here.”
“Yeah. Sit properly.”
“Properly?”
“With me.”
So you sit. And he immediately drags you into his lap like that’s the obvious solution.
“You’re heavy,” you say.
“Rude.”
But his arms tighten around you anyway.
His face presses into your neck again. He inhales like he’s memorising your scent.
“You didn’t FaceTime enough,” he mumbles.
“You were out every night.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”
He hated sleeping alone.
He hated waking up and not reaching for you.
He hated that weird time difference where you were living your day and he was finishing his.
The entire day goes like that.
You try to go to the bathroom he waits outside the door.
You try to tidy something he follows you room to room.
At one point you stop in the hallway and turn around, almost colliding into him.
“Why are you actually glued to me?”
He looks down at you like it’s obvious.
“Because I’ve been in a different country.”
“For a few weeks.”
“Exactly.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling.
Later, when you’re both lying on the sofa, he pulls you so close you can barely move.
“You’re suffocating me.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Good.”
You laugh, but his arms don’t loosen.
Your fingers drift into his hair and he melts instantly. Actually melts. His breathing slows. His grip softens but doesn’t leave.
“You’re not going anywhere tomorrow, are you?” he asks quietly.
“I live here.”
“Yeah, but like… anywhere.”
You tilt your head. “Are you scared I’m going to America now?”
He huffs lightly, but there’s something real underneath it.
“I just don’t like being away from you.”
Just presses his forehead against your collarbone and tightens his arms again.
You wrap yourself around him properly this time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him.
He nods slightly.
“Good.”
And even hours later, when you’re getting into bed, he pulls you close again leg tangled with yours, arm draped across your waist, fingers laced with yours under the blanket.
Usually he shifts away after a bit.
Tonight he doesn’t.
If you move even slightly, his grip tightens instinctively.
You whisper, “You’re clingy.”
He murmurs sleepily, “Shut up.”
But he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
And even as he drifts off, he stays wrapped around you like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t be.
