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777bae · 20 hours ago

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OUT OF REACH EMIL LILLEBERG

Summary :: Emil always forgets you’re not as tall as him, constantly putting things on the top shelf just out of reach. After a few failed attempts to grab a box of pasta, you call for help—only for him to tease you as he effortlessly grabs it down. Despite the frustration, you can’t help but appreciate his charm… even if he’s a walking kitchen disaster.

Warnings :: reader is quite a bit shorter than him (Emil is like 6’2)

Word count :: 2.0k

The kitchen feels unusually cramped tonight, the space shrinking with every stretch of your arm. The air is thick with the mix of frustration and determination that’s building up inside you. Every inch you gain feels like an impossibility—like the pasta box is playing some cruel game, just barely within reach but always slipping further back when you think you’re close. You tiptoe higher, your breath catching as you stretch even more, fingertips brushing the edge, but not quite making contact.

The box of pasta taunts you with its proximity, daring you to reach it, daring you to be taller, to be more clever, to be anything but the person you are right now—straining, balancing on the balls of your feet, your entire body bending and twisting to meet its challenge. Your fingertips graze the corner of the box, but the moment you think you’ve got it, the damn thing slides away like it’s mocking your efforts.

You step back, exhaling a huff of frustration. Your arm aches from the stretch, muscles burning, yet you can’t help but feel compelled to keep trying. You’ve been at this for what feels like an eternity, and all you want is that stupid box, just a simple task, but it’s like the shelf is an enemy in some poorly scripted battle you’re never going to win.

You’ve already tried everything. The edge of the counter, the tiptoeing, even the desperate stretches with your spine curved in ways it shouldn’t be. You’ve jumped a few times too, almost knocking over the spice rack in the process. But nothing works. The top shelf remains just out of your reach, and it’s becoming an endless loop of failure. You feel a surge of irritation wash over you, the kind that turns even small tasks into mountains you can’t climb.

Just then, you hear Emil’s voice from the living room—soft, almost muffled by the low hum of the TV. It’s a lazy kind of sound, his usual drawl that lets you know he’s not really doing anything, just existing. He’s probably sprawled out on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of his own quiet, effortlessly relaxed state, while you’re here, fighting an invisible war against a shelf.

You glance back toward the living room, almost as if you’re expecting him to materialize at any moment, like he might suddenly walk in, notice your struggle, and offer some sort of unsolicited advice or assistance. But no—he’s probably lost in the game, or checking his phone, or just… completely unaware of your ongoing battle.

You can almost picture it—his easy posture, the way he probably doesn’t even realize how long you’ve been at this. He wouldn’t know what it’s like to fight with something that’s supposed to be easy, to have something just out of reach, no matter how hard you try. His world is probably so effortlessly simple, and here you are—on your tiptoes, straining with a dumb box of pasta like it’s the most important thing in the world.

The frustration builds again, and you let out a long, exasperated sigh, as if the air itself is feeling the weight of your irritation. You can’t just give up—not after everything.

You stretch again, pushing your body higher, giving a little hop in a last-ditch effort to finally grasp the elusive box of pasta. It’s no use. The box taunts you, stubbornly staying just beyond your reach. Your fingertips graze the bottom corner again, but it slides away, like it’s playing its own game with you. Frustration builds in your chest, and your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as your muscles scream in protest. This was supposed to be easy.

You stand there for a moment, frozen in a mix of disbelief and irritation, your arm still outstretched, hovering in the air. The feeling of helplessness gnaws at you—how can something so simple be so maddening? The corner of the shelf, so close yet so far. Your gaze flickers to the rest of the kitchen, but the air feels too heavy, and you just need to let it out.

With a dramatic sigh, you drop your arm, the sense of defeat hanging over you. You turn to face the empty space behind you, shaking your head. This is absurd. He had to put it there, didn’t he? The box of pasta. The one thing you can’t reach.

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “Emil!” you call, the words coming out louder than you intended, a mixture of frustration and resignation in your voice. The name cuts through the silence of the kitchen, a sharp cry for help. You wait, your pulse still racing as you let the annoyance settle in.

You hear the familiar sound of Emil shifting on the couch—his casual movement, a shift of weight on the cushions—before his voice drifts toward you, muffled and unconcerned. “Yeah?”

A second later, your irritation creeps up again, this time spilling out in an exaggerated tone, the kind of thing you didn’t mean but can’t hold back now. “Can you come in here for a second?” you call out again, the words dripping with the kind of annoyance you usually try to suppress, but tonight, it’s all spilling over. You don’t even try to hold it in; you’re done. You need help, but you’re going to let him know how ridiculous it all feels.

The sound of him standing reaches you next, the soft shuffle of footsteps that tell you he’s not rushing. A few moments pass before he appears in the doorway, moving with the same laid-back ease that’s practically his trademark. His hands are casually shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, his posture relaxed as he leans against the doorframe, eyeing you with a faint glint of amusement already tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes flick up to the top shelf—your target—and then back to you, still standing there on your tiptoes, arms stretched up, straining for the box of pasta that’s just out of your grasp.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You still trying to get that?” he asks, the teasing lilt in his voice impossible to ignore. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, like he knows exactly what’s going on. And maybe he does—maybe he’s been watching you struggle from the living room, quietly enjoying the show.

You roll your eyes dramatically, letting out a long exhale as you throw your hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, and I swear, if that pasta box is laughing at me right now, I’m going to lose it,” you say, your voice a mixture of exasperation and playful exaggeration. The frustration still pulses under your words, but you know you can’t take it too seriously—after all, it’s just pasta. Right?

Emil chuckles at your theatrics, his chest vibrating with amusement. He uncrosses his arms and steps forward, a slow, deliberate movement that only adds to the easy confidence he exudes. His arms fold back into his chest as he leans against the counter, watching you with a half-amused, half-sympathetic expression. “You know,” he starts, his voice light but with a teasing edge, “if you just asked, I’d grab it for you.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes as you give him an exaggerated, dramatic pout, trying to mirror his smugness. “I’m trying to maintain some dignity here,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You take a small step back, waving your arms theatrically as you turn your attention back to the shelf. “But you—” you pause, making sure to emphasize the point—“keep putting things on the top shelf like you’re trying to make me lose my mind.”

He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his smirk only deepens, that knowing look in his eyes never leaving. Without another word, he steps forward and reaches up to grab the box from the shelf. He does it so effortlessly that it seems almost cruel. The motion is fluid, practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and he’s only half-paying attention.

He pulls the box down in a single, smooth motion, not breaking a sweat. His eyes flick back to you, a playful grin stretching across his face. “It’s not my fault you’re not as vertically gifted as me,” he teases, his tone light, but there’s that underlying sense of mischief you know too well. His words are almost too perfect, a reminder of how, in this moment, you’re not the one winning.

You huff, frustration still bubbling in your chest, and snatch the pasta box from Emil’s outstretched hand. Your fingers brush his briefly, and you can’t ignore the warmth of his touch, even if it’s just for a moment. You give him a playful shove, the kind you’ve given him a hundred times before when he’s pushed your buttons just enough. “Can you stop putting things on the top shelf like you’re some sort of kitchen god?” you ask, your voice half-mocking, half-exasperated. “I swear, it’s like you’re doing it on purpose!”

Emil’s laughter is instant, his deep chuckle rumbling in the air between you two. He leans back against the doorframe, arms still casually crossed over his chest. His eyes gleam with amusement, a mischievous twinkle you know all too well. “You’re welcome for my assistance,” he says, his tone light and teasing. “But seriously, you’d be better off just asking next time.”

You hold the pasta box up, waving it in front of him like a prize you’ve just won—an exaggerated, triumphant gesture that only makes your frustration more ridiculous. “Oh, I’ll ask next time,” you reply, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “But only if you promise to never, ever put the cereal up there again.” You give the box a little shake for emphasis, almost like you’re bargaining. “I’ll start hiding your snacks if you do.”

Emil’s grin widens, and he tilts his head slightly, as if considering your offer, but you can see the glint of mischief in his eyes. “If you do that, I’ll just move all the snacks to the highest shelf of the pantry,” he says, feigning seriousness, though you know he’s enjoying this playful back-and-forth. “You’re not winning this battle.”

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms in a mock display of defiance. You give him a playful side-eye, your lips curling upward despite your best efforts to appear stern. “You just wait,” you say, a quiet promise hanging in your words. “I’ll find a way to get back at you for this.”

Emil just shakes his head, his smile broadening even more. The laughter still lingers in his voice as he pushes off from the doorframe, but he’s clearly not done with the teasing. “You’re lucky I’m around to help,” he says with a playful sigh, the words drawing out a little more than necessary as if he’s giving you some rare gift of his presence. “Where would you be without me?”

You roll your eyes in exaggerated disbelief but can’t help the smile creeping onto your face despite yourself. There’s something about him—something about the way he teases, so effortlessly, without even trying—that softens your irritation every time. “Probably managing just fine, actually,” you mutter, trying to keep up the act, but the grin that you can’t suppress says otherwise. “But it’s good to know you’ll always be there when I need you to—what was it? Rescue me from the shelf?”

“Exactly,” he says with a wink, his voice dripping with mock-heroism, and you can almost hear the dramatic music playing behind his words. He turns to head back toward the living room, the casualness of his steps belying the smugness in his grin. “It’s a full-time job, you know. I’m basically a hero around here.”

You can’t help but laugh at his antics, the sound escaping you before you can even think to hide it. You watch him saunter back into the other room, shoulders relaxed, a confident air about him. You stand there for a moment, the faintest smile still tugging at your lips as you shake your head, knowing full well that maybe, just maybe, you secretly appreciate having him around—even if his brand of “help” involves ridiculously high shelves and pasta-box placement strategies.

“Hero,” you mutter under your breath, still smiling as you shake your head, half in disbelief, half in fondness. “Yeah, sure.” But you both know the truth—you’d never trade him for anything else.

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