#Trent Alexander arnold

[kraeki]

We’re not winning another game this season 😭

[trentione]

his face in the first pic 😭

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index Cont: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 21 - 'Cracked Open' | 'Aperture'

word count - 15.8k (sorry I know 🫣)

The kiss lingered in the air even after your mouths parted, like heat off pavement, like steam on glass. It felt like velvet, too soft to hold, too dangerous to let go. The kind of kiss that sings in your blood, that finds all your wounds and pours honey in them. Trent’s breath caught on yours. Still so close, you shared air. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was scared blinking might end it. His hand rose slowly, reverently, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like he’d waited lifetimes for the permission. And maybe he had. Maybe in some cruel, slow-burning universe you’d both been waiting.

“You undo me,” he whispered, almost embarrassed by the admission, the words thick in his throat. “Every time. You just… fuck.” You softly smiled, barely there, the kind that trembled at the corners. Eyes half-lidded, heavy with him. Bashful, apologetic and yet entirely not. 

“I know.” You leaned your forehead against his and it was quiet again, so quiet you could hear the static between your skin. “I’m sorry.” You whispered more earnestly this time. He shook his head, dismissing your apology because you could do destroy him and he’d thank you for it, never expecting that apology. The room was blue, cool from the low light coming from the screen, shadows stretching long across the walls but he was warm. So warm. Outside, the party was humming and alive, but in here it was just you and him, like the world had cracked open and offered you a secret place to hide. He pulled you closer, one arm around your waist, the other splayed warm across your back. His thumb traced absentminded patterns over your skin beneath the cardigan, and the touch was featherlight but it grounded you. You nestled into him, your thigh slipping between his, a tangle of limbs, slow breaths syncing like a lullaby only the two of you could hear. And there was something almost sacred about it, about the way your bodies fit, about how you found your way into each other like muscle memory. Not lustful, not rushed. Just wanting. “I think about you all the time,” you murmured, drunk not from the tequila but from him, from the way he smelled like cedarwood and worn cotton and safety. “Even when I don’t want to. Especially then.” Trent’s eyes fluttered closed, peace crashing over him as he let his lips ghost over your forehead, his mouth brushing your skin like prayer. 

“You’re all I ever think about,” he admitted into your hair. “Even when I pretend not to.” And there it was, the truth, sweet and slow and unflinching. Your hand rose to cradle his jaw, thumb resting beneath his eye, swiping over a cluster of freckles, as you looked at him. 

“Why are we like this?” You asked. He smiled, sad and fond. 

“Because it’s always you. Even when it shouldn’t be.” He said it and prayed you’d remember that in the morning. The weight of it settled between you. Not heavy, just real. Just right. And instead of running from it like you always did, you let it hold you down. Let it press into your chest and fill you up. He kissed you again, softer this time. Like a secret. Like forgiveness. You wanted to ask him to stay, but he already had. Your foreheads pressed together. The world narrowed to that: breath shared, lips tingling, his thumb still stroking the skin beneath your jaw like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. Like letting go would undo him completely.

“You feel warm,” you murmured, eyelids fluttering. Your voice was thick now, honey-slow and sleepy. “Like summer.” You elaborate, tequila dripping off the words. He let out a soft sound, a laugh maybe, or something heavier, stuck in his chest. He tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. His nose brushed yours and it felt like worship.

“You’re drunk, baby,” he whispered, completely infatuated, no matter your state.

“Not from tequila.” You murmured a half truth. You felt him smile. Felt his hand slip lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. Like he’d dreamed you up and wasn’t quite convinced you were real. “I missed you so much, made me scared,” you admitted, the truth slipping out like a secret. Your fingertips found the hem of his jumper, curling there, anchoring. He pulled back just enough to look at you again. Eyes glossy, lashes low, lips swollen from the softness between you. 

“C’mere.” He said, voice hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours, shifting beneath you, hips raised into you, arms tightening around you, pulling you into him. “Shhh.” He politely hushed you, kissing your hair. And you stilled but your mind raced. Did he not feel the same? Minute after minute your heart began to hurt more and more until… “Missed you so much.” Quiet. Barely a sound whispered against you and that’s when your whole body melted into his. Relief. Both of you. You felt it. The way his breath caught when your body curled closer. The way his fingertips dragged slow, careful paths across your skin like he was scared you might break. Or disappear. Or that he might. He wanted you. You could feel it in every inch of him. But more than that, you could feel the tremble beneath the wanting, hesitation, hesitation, hesitation. You didn’t want to ruin it. Not when everything still felt too holy. So you stayed wrapped around him, tangled up close to on top of him in that dim corner of the house, your thigh pulled over his waist. Warm. And yet, you didn’t push. You just held on. Then— Boom. A cheer erupted from the kitchen. Glass clinked, someone shouted something unintelligible. Drunk friends threatening to burst the bubble. You stirred slightly, your voice soft and unsure. 

“Can I stay right here with you?” And there it was: your truth, plain and fragile. A question cloaked in casualness but soaked in panic. Wondering if this meant nothing. If he’d wanted you to keep things as they were before you entered this room; distant. Or worse, that he was letting you cling to him out of guilt, obligation, nostalgia. Politeness to the drunk girl. That maybe you were just someone to touch, not someone to love anymore. Trent smiled. Just barely. But it reached his eyes, and it curled through his voice.

“Not allowed to go back there,” he said, low and warm, his lips brushing your hair like a kiss if only the words hadn’t gotten in the way. “Need you to watch the game with me.” He pulled you into him a little more. You tilted your head to peer up at him. 

“Are you even watching the game?” Your giggle was sleepy, teasing. And it did something to him. He looked down at you like you were made of the sky. His hand tightened around your hip, and then he just held you there, like he was afraid to blink.

“I am now,” he whispered because now he could watch. Because he didn’t have to dream anymore, distracted by the thought of you. You were finally in the room with him. The room swam in blue lights and muffled noise, and the hum of the world blurred until all you could hear was the soft thud of his heart under your cheek. His hand slid further up your back, palm against bare skin. Not to start anything. Just to feel. Just to anchor. His thumb drew slow circles on your spine, soothing and steady, as if memorizing you all over again. Like every inch of you mattered. And you melted. Eyes fluttered closed. Breath deepened. And you slipped in and out of sleep like a tide, always coming back to him. Once, you stirred and pressed a kiss to his collarbone before nuzzling back into his chest. Another time, you let your foot drag lazily up his calf, pulling up the fabric of his trousers, delicate and drunk and instinctive. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Every time your lips brushed his skin in that dream-heavy way, like a sleepwalker needing proof he was real, Trent’s resolve frayed a little more. But still, he just held you. Didn’t take more than this. Because he couldn’t. Not like this. Not when you were soft and bleary and far too drunk for anything but honesty. But fuck, you felt like sin in his hands. Warm and real and his. So he stayed right there. Let you use him like a pillow. Let your breath tickle his chest and your leg hook over his like you always used to do. Let you fall asleep on him like you belonged there. He pressed quiet kisses into your hair, your temple, the bridge of your nose when you sighed and shifted. No words now. Just him, silently telling you he was still here. That you were safe. The world could’ve been burning down in the next room. Another game had started, he barely registered it. All he knew was this: you, curled in his arms, skin pressed to his, scent weighing him down, heartbeat calm now, finally. Trent didn’t know what tomorrow looked like. But right now, he didn’t care. Because for the first time in what felt like forever… His girl was back. Right where he liked her. And he was in your world now

—

The house had thinned to a hush. Laughter floated like ghost smoke from the kitchen, but the night was already tucking itself in. The party had unraveled to its last few threads, bottles tipped, lihts low, music barely more than a hum now. And there you were, half-draped in sleep and in him, all limbs and sighs, as if your body knew something your mind refused to say. Trent hadn’t moved in hours. Your cheek was pillowed on his chest, one hand curled loosely into the fabric of his hoodie, the other slipped beneath it, splayed across his abdomen. One leg hooked over his lap like you’d never left. He stroked your back absently, thumb trailing the hem of your shorts, his head tilted back on the couch and eyes half-closed. Not asleep. Just... full. Overwhelmed in the softest way. And then—

“Hey…” Campbell’s voice came like a quiet knock against the stillness, her silhouette pausing in the doorway. Trent’s head turned, slow and careful, not wanting to jostle you. You just whined, like a child dreaming something sweet, fisting the material of his hoodie tighter, pressing your nose into the warm skin of his neck. Campbell’s heart sank a little. ‘Here we go’ was all she could think. You looked so safe. So his. And still, she knew what had gone unsaid. The words you couldn’t give him. The ones you’d desperately whined on the night of your birthday, the ones that’d vanished the next morning only to bubble over as you cried on her sofa days after that, voice thick with guilt and grief. She knew it hadn’t been fixed. Not really. It had just… spilled out and flooded everything. “I was gonna head out,” she said gently, careful not to break whatever spell had lulled you into his lap like this. “Babe, do you wanna come with me? Can crash at mine.” She stepped closer, tugging her jacket tighter around herself with one arm, the other gently coming to rest against the couch cushion closest to you but still a distance away giving both you and Trent the option to decide. Her tone was soft, like she was asking a sleeping bird if it wanted to fly. You didn’t answer, not with words. Just burrowed deeper into Trent, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you sighed, limp and wanting.

“Wanna stay with you, baby,” you murmured, and the sound, his name dressed in that tone, nearly knocked the wind out of him. His eyes fluttered shut. It wasn’t clarity. It wasn’t a confession. But it was something. And it was all his, this moment. This messy, tangled, precious moment. But it was in front of someone else and he knew what it looked like from the outside. 

“T…” Campbell started again, hesitant. She was offering a lifeline. She was the better choice. The rational one. The ride home, the hangover cure, the avoidance of old wounds. She was the girl friend who wanted to save you both before this went too far again. But you were already gone, fused to him like a second skin. And Trent… Trent was sober enough to know exactly what this was. What he was allowing. What he’d die to keep.

“Is alright.” His voice was low. A hush of wind through curtains. A warm current in cold water. “You wanna stay with me, beautiful?” He asked running his hand over your hair, the other firm against the small of your back as if silently begging you to. You nodded against his chest, drunk and drowsy and so entirely vulnerable it made Campbell ache. Your fingers tightened in his hoodie again, like a reflex. Like something ancient in you remembered how he felt in sleep. How he used to keep the nightmares away. “Alright,” he whispered, smiling. “You stay with me tonight.” And he pulled you closer, impossibly closer, as if his arms were a shelter and you were the only thing that ever needed saving. Campbell exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding as she watched him kiss your hairline. Tender in a way that only arrived after tension. 

“My T…” you slurred, barely audible. A kiss of a sound. A name only lovers say like that. She stepped back, her eyes soft with knowing. She knew you loved him. Knew he loved you. But this not-saying, not-breaking, not-choosing, it would destroy you both if you kept swallowing it down. Still… how do you interrupt something that feels like fate? Even like this, half conscious, skin warm with tequila and sleep, you clung to him like you were tethered. And even in his clearest moment, he held you like you were a promise. A bad idea had never looked so much like home.

—

The house was asleep by the time Trent carried you upstairs. You weren’t heavy, not to him, you never could be. Not when you melted into his chest like you belonged there, arms draped around his neck and breath warm against his collarbone. You murmured something incoherent as he pushed his bedroom door open with his foot, careful not to wake the wood floors with a creak. The light from the hallway cast soft shadows across his room: his jumper slung over the chair, the bed left slightly disheveled from when he left it last, the neighborhood breathing quietly outside the window. You didn’t need his help but he offered it anyway. You were drunk, sure, but your feet still found the floor like you’d memorized it long ago when he set you down. You leaned against the dresser, unable to will yourself to stand up unassisted, eyes scanning the familiar space through the haze in your head. That scent, him, always him, woodsy, warm, clean cotton and something sweeter beneath it, curled in your chest like a comfort you hadn’t felt in months. He watched you from behind. Silhouetted in the low light, his girl again. Loose-limbed in your cardigan [ref index] and nothing underneath but the memory of his hands and your choices. Hand struggling with the ties. You could feel his eyes on you as you struggled to get yourself ready for bed on your own. 

“I’m fine,” you whispered as he came closer. “Can do it myself.” Your fingers moved sluggishly pulling at the wrong end of the silky strings holding your sweater closed. 

“I know, baby,” he murmured gently and knowingly, smiling. But still, he reached forward, his fingers brushing the tie at the front of your cardigan. “Let me, yeah?” You nodded once, lips parted. And so he did. He untied each knot slowly, like it mattered. Like he wasn’t just undressing you, but unwrapping something delicate, sacred. The string gave way, one soft pull after another, the edges of your cardigan parting until you were almost completely bare before him again. Your sweater undone like curtains framing your body. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. You just looked up at him, drunk, sleepy, and let him see you. Not as a game. Not to tease him. But because you trusted him to look. Because some part of you still hoped he’d only ever want to. And god, did he want to. His heart was racing so hard it felt like it lived in his throat now, fluttering wild because you let him have this, let him see the soft curves he’d memorized, the gentle slope of your shoulders, the skin he’d only ever loved in private, like a secret he was lucky enough to keep. And as he undid the last bow, his hand dropped to your hip. He exhaled letting his eyes closed, willing himself to control primal urges.  His eyes opened slowly, locking on yours, stars dancing in them, and he squeezed your hip just to make sure you were actually in the room with him, real. It wasn’t fair. Your skin was too soft, you smelled too good, your tits sat too well, all of it taunting him and yet none of it, he couldn’t blame you because it was just you simply existing. And your existence was something he just felt lucky enough to be in the presence of and he didn’t want to lose it again. So he leaned around you. Through gritted teeth, you’d never see, he pulled one of his T-shirts from the dresser. That grey one you always took, the one that stretched long on you and still smelled like him even after washes.

“Here,” he said. You stood in front of him, caged in by his presence, lips parted, eyes innocent and naive to what you were doing to him. And like slow painful torture, you clumsily pulled your arms completely out of your sweater letting it fall off of you. Trent couldn’t fight the smile. It was ridiculous. You were ridiculous. And like the adorable temptress you were, your lips began to curl into a smile of your own seeing his. “There we go. Thank you.” He sang facetiously, rolling his eyes as he took the cardigan from you before helping you tug his shirt over your head gently, careful not to mess your hair. “Get cold not wearing anything.” He smiled. 

“Thought you like when I don’t wear anything?” You asked, voice muffled as your arms slipped through the sleeves automatically, head ducking into cotton and familiarity. It was a clunky question that made him laugh. 

“Baby…” He chuckled. “I love when you’re in nothing, trust me.  But for me… and for you right now.” He ran a hand over his face searching for composure. “Imma need you to put something on, yeah?” He looked at you pleadingly with knowing eyes and stupid smile. You nodded bashfully. 

“This one’s my favorite,” you mumbled, running your hands over the fabric of the shirt, blinking slow.

“I know, baby, I know.”  He smiled, quiet, fond, devastating. “I don’t even wear it anymore. It’s yours. Reminds me too much of you now.” He sighed, putting his hands on your shoulders and walking you to his bed. Another aftereffect of you existing in his world. You were ruining things you never knew about and staining them permanently in your wake unknowingly. 

And then he was tucking you in. He laid you down like you were made of glass. The duvet was cool when it first met your back, but he was quick to tug it over your body, folding the covers over your body like you were precious. Smoothing the duvet along your sides with the care of someone who truly loved you. But when he turned to undress himself, to move away from the bed, you whined. Soft. Needy. Honest.

“No, baby. Baby stay—just stay…” He paused, hand at the button of his trousers..

“Baby, I’m just…” He smiled fairly amused by the complaint.

“Don’t wanna be without you,” you mumbled into the pillow, drunkenly and childishly pouting, arms already reaching. “Come be with me.” So instead of stepping away, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, back to you, exhaling like it almost hurt to be loved this way again. You curled around him instinctively, your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, your arms wrapping around his waist. He let his head tip forward, hands moving to undo his trousers, fingers working the button, sliding the zip down. Then he pulled off his shirt, slow, deliberate, your breath warm against his skin the whole time. And once he was left in just his boxers, he didn’t wait. He climbed over you, slipping in beside you with care, like he was afraid he’d scare the moment away if he moved too quickly

“Alright, alright. C’mere.” He smiled greedily. And he loved that you didn’t hesitate, your body moved with his, finding him in the dark. Your leg slipped between his, your palm flat to his chest, your nose tucked beneath his jaw like this was muscle memory. Like your body had never forgotten the map of him. And he held you. As close as he could without shattering. Nothing rushed, nothing cruel. Just quiet warmth and deep exhale comfort. Your breath slowed against his neck. 

“Don’t wanna dream without you tonight.” You whispered in the hush of the night. He didn’t answer at first, he couldn’t. Not with the lump in his throat, not with the way you still reached for him like he was home. So he pressed a kiss to your forehead and pulled you tighter into his chest, lips grazing your hairline.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.” You turned into him further, automatically, instinctually, pressing your cheek to his bare chest, sighing out like his body was a lullaby. Trent exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes, trying not to lose his grip on the ache blooming in his chest. He shouldn’t want this. But he did. He did so much. You felt like sin in his hands. Soft, fragile sin he could never quite stay away from. And yet you were also the gentlest thing he’d ever known.

“Are you awake?” you whispered against his skin, your voice gauzy with sleep and liquor.

“Mmhm,” he hummed, lips brushing the crown of your head. “You alright, baby?”

“Mmhmm.” You dragged the word out like a kitten stretching. “Your bed’s too comfortable. Not fair.” He smiled against your hair. 

“Nah, no such thing as too comfortable.” You smiled curling against him, holding him a bit tighter. Trent’s heart faltered feeling your lips against his bare skin. “Besides, couldn’t have you waking up sore after falling asleep on me downstairs. Took the risk bringing you up here.” He kissed your head another time. 

“I liked it.” Your lips brushed over his chest again when you said it, so light it barely counted. “You’re warm. You smell good.” You slurred but that made something in him stutter. 

“You smell like tequila and vanilla,” he murmured with a smile. “Can’t lie, it’s a bit dangerous, baby.” You giggled softly, your hand trailing up his ribcage, resting just below his heart. Your nails against his skin had goosebumps raising. He held your waist, palm splayed across the small of your back, thumb tracing your spine beneath his shirt. The room was quiet. The duvet heavy and soft. His heartbeat under your cheek steady enough to rock you to sleep. But neither of you wanted to let go of the night just yet. “You looked really beautiful tonight,” he said, his voice low and reverent. Like he was confessing to the moon. 

“You always say that.” You smiled, not opening your eyes. 

“Still true.” He mused. You shifted, moving towards the nape of his neck, angling your mouth to the skin just beneath his jaw, leaving a sleepy kiss there. 

“Missed you,” you whispered. His arm pulled you closer before he could stop himself. 

“Missed you more,” he breathed. But he didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say I still love you. I’ve never stopped. I’d wait forever if you’d just ask me to. Instead, he pressed his lips to your hair again and closed his eyes. Another kiss from you, barely awake now, this one to his collarbone. Your foot slid against his, hooking gently, claiming him again without even knowing it.

“Don’t go anywhere, T,” you murmured, half-asleep on his bare chest, skin to skin, tequila-soft from the night. The room was hush now, save for the faint remnants of people echoing through the walls, like the party didn’t want to let go of you just yet. But he did, his arms wrapped around you, grounding you gently like gravity knew his name.

“Not going anywhere,” he whispered. “Not anywhere away from you.” 

“You sure?” You asked nervously, half asleep, but conscious enough to need to know his answer. Trent inhaled as if there was any other answer beside yes but all he got was just you infiltrating his lungs so he exhaled in sweet surrender. 

“Yeah, c’mere. Come gimme a kiss. Show you how sure I am.” Trent’s palm cradled your cheek, thumb tracing up the slope of your jaw, tilting your face to him like you were something precious, a sculpture he needed to see in full. His touch was reverent. Honest, real and warm. You kissed him, slow, certain, a tether. His lips were soft and sure against yours, full of things he hadn’t said and you were too scared to. Your world spun dizzy around that kiss, every nerve lit up, like your body was remembering something your mind couldn’t admit yet. His hand pressed against your bare back, fingers splayed with aching gentleness, holding you like glass. You melted into him, into the sheets, into the hazy warmth of his mouth moving against yours. Drunk, God, you were so drunk. On the tequila. On him. On the way he looked at you like you were something holy and heavy with meaning. The words clawed at your throat, choking you with their weight. I love you. But all you could do was sigh into his kiss, lashes fluttering shut, the confession stuck in your chest like water in your lungs. Drowning in it. Sweetly. Willingly. You belonged nowhere else but here, in the hush between his breaths, in the cradle of his hands, in the sleepy sanctity of a kiss that felt like a promise. And that’s when you fell for him all over again. After slowly, you both drifted off. Holding each other without saying the things you meant, but speaking them anyway, in quiet touches, barely-there kisses, and hearts pressed close in the dark. A bed like a cloud. A room that felt like a secret. His arms, your anchor. Your body, his prayer. And in the hush before dreams took over, he heard you sigh his name once more, like it still belonged to you. Like maybe, he still did too.

—

The next morning had been soft. Light filtered through his curtains like a secret, the duvet warm around your limbs, your cheek still pressed to his chest long after sleep had faded. It was quiet but not unkind. The silence between you had begun to shift, just slightly. Like something healing, almost imperceptible. He didn’t rush you out. You didn’t rush to go. A few mumbled words, a lazy kiss to his jaw, and then the day moved on. That was last week. Since then, you’d texted a little. Fleeting things. A TikTok here, a dry comment there. Nothing that hinted at anything too close to emotional. Because neither of you wanted to bring up your birthday. The night. The gallery. The kiss. The ache. No, that would require maturity, vulnerability, things that didn’t fit inside the silence you were both stubbornly maintaining. So you ignored it. Pretended everything was fine.

Now you were in Manchester, deep into day two of a Hypebeast shoot, this one with Jordan Mainoo-Hames and Kobbie. They were cheeky and loud and exactly the kind of distraction you needed. Focusing on lighting the two brothers in high fashion looks rather than what was happening in your heart. You posted a quick Instagram story from set: “countdown’s on, wrap in 2 hours 🫡”. You didn’t think anything of it. Just a throwaway post for your close friends. But what you didn’t realize was that Trent had already seen Jordan’s story the day before.

The one of you bent over the monitor, back arched, your top slipping down one arm as you scrolled through the frames on a MacBook. He had teased you about your music taste from across the studio, voice cutting through the story: “Why she always blasting roadman anthems like she tryna summon a ghost of her ex?” You’d laughed. Loud, radiant, devastating.

“Lemme listen to my D-Block in peace!” you’d yelled back, smile wide as you tucked your face into your shoulder. But Trent didn’t feel peace. No, he felt heat. A sour twist in his gut. That was something you said to him in his car. Your thing. The two of you with the windows down, singing over bass. It didn’t matter that it was harmless. Didn’t matter that you were working. Trent was jealous. And now he had a countdown. Two hours ‘til wrap. Two hours untill he reminded you who you were supposed to come home to.

—

The studio had long gone quiet. The last echoes of footsteps and camera clicks had faded hours ago. Everyone else was probably already halfway through their second pint, but you remained where you always did, last woman standing. Cross-legged on the concrete floor, back slightly aching, fingertips stained with dust and the light grease of handling tech all day. Your MacBook was balanced on a makeshift crate beside you, tethered to your hard drive and memory cards, thumbnails flickering across the screen like a quiet film reel. You barely noticed the time. The playlist you'd let run had already looped through three times. D-Block Europe murmured faintly from your speakers, a familiar hum as your eyes flicked across shots; crop, color, reframe, tag. You liked this part. The stillness. The control. The solitude. Until a ping interrupted the silence.

‘Shoot done?’

Your chest pulled tight in that way you hated how much you liked. A warm little curl of something that loosened in your stomach. You responded without thinking too hard.

‘All wrapped but I’m still working. Last standing as per.’

Short. Light. Safe. The kind of message that said you were fine without him. Even if you weren’t. His reply came faster than expected.

‘Can’t have that.’

Your brows pinched in confusion. You stared at your phone for a moment, trying to decode it, until, not ten minutes later, the soft sound of knuckles against steel pulled you out of your haze. A knock. You froze. The front door had been locked. No one should be coming in now. Another knock. Firm. Steady. Familiar. You moved to the side entrance slowly, heart climbing higher with every step, until you swung the door open, and he was there. Trent. Leaning one shoulder against the frame, grey hoodie pulled tight over his broad chest, hair damp from the drizzle outside. In his right hand, slightly sheepish but proud all the same, he held a bunch of flowers. Not overly polished or prim. Just… beautiful. Wild. Like he grabbed whatever made him think of you. Dahlias, baby’s breath, hydrangeas, eucalyptus—soft blushes and whites and gentle greens, stems still dripping from the rain.

“Thought you might need a reason to stop working,” he said, eyes drinking you in. You blinked at him, stunned.

“You brought me flowers?” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but his voice was softer when he replied.

“Didn’t feel right showing up empty-handed.” You took them gently from his fingers, your thumbs brushing against his knuckles longer than necessary. They were cool from the air, and so was he but his eyes were warm, that ever-present ache behind them that never seemed to leave since your birthday. The one he hadn’t dared bring up. The one you both had been avoiding like glass on a kitchen floor.

“You’re silly,” you whispered, a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know,” he said quickly. Then added quieter, “I wanted to.” You exhaled, the smell of the flowers catching in your nose; clean, earthy, sweet.

“I was just editing,” you murmured, stepping aside. “Didn’t even realise the time.” He followed you in without asking, looking around the studio, wires, light stands, your jumper draped over a chair, and a mostly empty cup of cold coffee. You were a mess in the most beautiful way, and it wrecked him. You looked like you. Your legs toned, shimmering under your shorts [ref index] stretching down into your little white socks and trainers, your tank top haphazardly tucked in like you hadn’t tried and yet it was so stupidly sexy. Trent could only shake his head.  

“I saw Jordan’s story yesterday,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck as you set the flowers down in a water jug. “Friend sent it to me. Didn’t like watching you smile like that. Not when I wasn’t the one making you smile.” You turned slowly, heart stammering in your chest.

“So you drove all the way over here…” You raised your brow. Not teasing, genuine.

“Yeah,” he said, standing in front of you now. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.” And suddenly, your quiet little edit session turned into something else entirely, the air full of unsaid things, of soaked petals, of him just standing there like he wasn’t the one thing you’d been trying to stop dreaming about for a week.

–

[BRIGHT - Zayn]

The studio had settled into a strange kind of hush, the lights half-dimmed, save for one or two softboxes still glowing like moons overhead. The hum of your hard drive spun quietly as you worked, cross-legged on the cold white floor again, but this time with Trent behind you. You were nestled between his legs, your back against his chest, his arms looped loosely around your middle like muscle memory. Your Mac was balanced across your thighs, the screen casting a cool glow across your face. And Trent, Trent, was making it so fucking hard to concentrate. One of his hands had slipped beneath the hem of your top, fingers resting low on your waist, lazy and proprietary. The other was spread across your thigh, kneading rhythmically, like he couldn’t sit still without touching you. His chin was tucked into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. Soft exhales right against your skin, every now and then letting out a small hum, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried to keep working. You really did. But then he kissed you. Just below your ear. Once. Soft. You stilled, jaw clenching. He did it again. Slower this time. Lips dragging warm and plush against your skin. Another kiss. Just beneath your jaw now. Your breath caught, head tipping ever so slightly to the side. Offering. You felt his smile against your neck.

“Trent…” But it wasn’t a protest. Not really. It came out more like a warning. Or a prayer. He ignored it. He kept kissing you. Lazy, lingering presses of mouth to skin that made your chest flutter and your core tighten. He kissed up the slope of your neck again, the shell of your ear now, your pulse hammering beneath the surface. And then he whispered it. Voice thick. Low. Honest.

“I got so fucking jealous.” Your breath hitched. You blinked at your screen, but the thumbnail grid had long since gone blurry. “Seeing you like that. Bent over in front of someone else,” he murmured, hand sliding up your thigh. “Didn’t think it would get to me. But it did.” You swallowed, lips parting.

“Baby…” You cautioned him again although the pet name alone showed your hand. 

“I know… I know...” He spoke really saying nothing at all but you were barely listening as you felt him press another kiss, higher now, closer to your jaw. “But you’re supposed to be mine.” Your hands had fallen from the keyboard. You tilted your head, letting him kiss you again. Letting him keep saying the things you’d both left unsaid. Your eyes fluttered closed. “And when you posted that story… saying the countdown was on I don’t know. I needed to see you.” He shifted behind you, turning you in his lap like he couldn’t bear to be without your mouth for more than a second, letting your mac slip from your lap onto the floor. His lips caught yours again, this time firmer, deeper, and your breath hitched against him, arms curling around his neck as you melted further into his body. His hands mapped your waist, slow and reverent, pressing and squeezing as if to remind himself you were really his, and not just a ghost that haunted him. Then he moved, one smooth, sure movement as he gently lay you back onto the cold concrete floor of the studio. The chill shocked your skin, but the moment was too heady to register anything but him. His warmth. His weight. The way his hands bracketed either side of your head as he hovered above you. His gaze raked down your body, chest rising and falling with restraint. Like he was holding himself together by a thread. “Maybe you should leave the cameras on,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, lips brushing your cheek. “You look… unreal.”

“Stop.” You laughed, breathless.

“Nah, so serious,” he said, nipping your jaw softly. “I’d watch that.” He smirked, kissing your collarbone, slow and open-mouthed. You arched beneath him, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie, dragging it up. He let you, arms lifting, and then it was gone, tossed somewhere across the studio floor, forgotten. Your hands traced the taut muscle of his torso, the lines of him familiar and still somehow new. He made a soft sound when your thumbs skimmed just above his waistband.

“Take it off,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. But he paused. Brushed his nose against yours, forehead resting to yours.

“I don’t want to rush it.” He said, erring on the side of caution but doing nothing about it ultimately.

“I know,” you said, softer. “I don’t either.” And still, you wanted him. You always had. Your top slipped over your head next, his hands pulling it slow, so careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. His thumb slipped underneath the clasp of your bra. Then the hook popped, seamless, easy. Then your bra was gone completely and you laid there beneath him, bare in more ways than one. Not taunting. Not performative. Just his. His fingers brushed your sternum, your ribcage, like he was memorizing bone and breath and softness. His voice went quiet.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy,” he said, awe-laced. You could feel his heartbeat, heavy and fast, where your chests almost touched. And then he kissed you again, lower this time, between your breasts, down your stomach, tracing you with his mouth like he wanted to worship every inch. His hands never stopped moving, grounding you, cradling you, stroking you like his touch could undo all the nights you'd cried alone thinking of him. You sat up to strip the rest of your clothes, and before you could reach for his, he beat you to it, trousers undone, shirt tugged over his head, heat and muscle and scent washing over you all at once. He was golden in the low light, shadows playing across his skin like sculpture. Jealousy looked good on him. And then he was crawling back over you, eyes dark and full of something feral and fond all at once.

“I missed you like this,” you whispered, one leg hooked around his hip. He lowered his mouth to your neck, lips dragging upward with a slow, wet trail of kisses.

“Missed you,” he murmured into your pulse. “Every inch. Every night.” And then your bodies met, bare, desperate, electric, moving with a softness that burned. It wasn’t frantic. It was raw. It was emotional. It was everything you’d swallowed down finally rising to the surface in touch, in sound, in surrender. The air was thick between you. His skin, golden and warm, brushed over yours, and it felt like static, like memory, like a promise you hadn’t dared believe in. He captured your lips in a deep, searing kiss that made your toes curl. There was a sweetness to him, the kind that made your chest ache but it was threaded with something filthier, darker. His mouth devoured yours like he’d been starved for you, and you melted into it, the rhythm of it, kiss after kiss, until the world faded out. You hardly noticed his hand slipping between your bodies, sliding your panties aside with practiced ease. His fingers found you soaked, spreading your folds with a slow, deliberate drag that had your hips twitching. A soft, high whine escaped you when he circled your entrance.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice low and rough in the stillness. “Missed this pussy. So wet f'me.” His thumb dragged up to roll over your clit just as two fingers pushed into you, slow and firm, and you blinked up at him, moaning, your eyes begging without a word. He curled his fingers exactly how you liked, and the look in his eyes shifted, darkened with awe at the way you unraveled under his touch. He’d missed this. All of it. The way you came alive for him. The way your body gave you away before your lips ever could. Every inch of contact sent sparks down your spine and made your stomach twist, made your heart ache in that unbearable, beautiful way. You didn’t need to say it, he could feel it in the way your pussy clenched around his fingers.

“Baby, need you,” you whispered, breath hitching, voice breaking. That was all it took.

“I got you, baby,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours as he dragged his cock through your folds. His other hand cradled your face with such care it nearly broke you. Then he sank into you, slow, deep, like he needed to feel every second of it, like this was sacred. You held onto him, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist, your eyes locked on his like they could see straight through to the softest, truest part of him. And he looked back, wide-eyed, reverent, as if you were something holy. This wasn’t just a reunion of bodies. It was a reckoning. A collision of longing and history, of things unsaid and feelings too big to contain. Every inch of him inside you cracked something open. There were no more games. No pretending. Just the breathless, quiet truth finally pouring out, moaned, murmured, gasped between tangled limbs and shaking breaths.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, head tipping back. “Feel so big, baby.” He groaned low in his throat, hips grinding deeper as your walls fluttered around him. The cameras were off, but this, this was the most honest either of you had ever been. He moved slow at first. Purposeful. Each thrust was a long drag of heat and friction and restraint, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you again. His hand gripped your hip, anchoring you to him, while his mouth found your skin, your breast, your shoulder, the edge of your jaw, kissing every place his love had once lived before fear pushed it away. You gripped into his curls and pulled him closer.

“T, look at me,” you breathed. He did. And what you saw there shattered you. His eyes were wide, dark, wrecked, and full of something raw. Something undeniable. Love. He saw the recognition flicker in your eyes before you could hide it. Your lips parted, breath catching, tears blurring your vision. He felt it. Knew it. You loved him back.

“I’ve only ever looked at you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. And you kissed him like that truth made you dizzy. The rhythm of his body quickened, tension winding hot and low in your belly. Each glide of him against your walls made your breath stutter. You arched up, a soft cry catching in your throat, and he groaned like it undid him. His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hooking your leg over his arm to angle deeper, and when he hit that spot, that spot, you broke.

“Right there, I know, baby,” he murmured. “That’s it, hmm?” His other hand slid under the small of your back, pulling you closer, keeping you flush to him. He kissed your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth, like he was stitching himself to you, breath by breath. The tension built unbearably. Your hands clutched at him, desperate, afraid to let go, afraid of what might happen if you did. But he was right there, whispering against your skin, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Ah, fuck. Oh my god, T,” you cried, voice breaking into babbles. “I’m gonna cum, baby.”

“Yeah, go on,” he whispered, cock dragging deep. “Cum f’me, baby. Be a good girl.” The pressure inside you snapped. You came hard, body clenching tight, the orgasm silent at first, stolen breath, frozen muscles, legs trembling around him, then a sob of his name spilled from your lips. That did it. His hips stuttered, and with a deep, trembling groan, he followed, spilling into you, forehead pressed to your neck, arms locked around you like he could keep you this close forever. Then came the stillness. The kind that feels sacred. Breathless. Undone in the best way.  But it didn’t last much longer. He rolled over to your side and pulled you into him drowsily. His chest rose and fell as you moved tighter to him, unable to keep away. You wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“I can’t even sleep some nights. I reach for you every night like an idiot.” Trent whispered into your skin, holding you, open and earnest. An admission he didn't know he was goin to say. You swallowed down a whimper. It broke something open in you because he was completely transparent with you. A glass man, shattering for you, again and again. 

 “Trent…” You said softly but he didn’t let you finish. His mouth found yours again, still slow, but deeper now, with more ache behind it. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once: your thigh, your back, your waist, your face. Gentle, greedy, reverent. Maybe to distract you from what he just said or to confirm it. And you melted. Let him kiss you like that. Let him cradle your face in his palms like he was afraid you'd be the one to shatter. Let him unspool you, thread by golden thread, with every sigh and brush of his lips.

“Missed touching you,” he confessed against your mouth. “Missed how you sound when I do this…” his hand dragged up your thigh again, slow, firm, taunting, coaxing a breathy moan from your throat. You gasped and laughed at once, head tipping back.

“That’s… That’s not fair, baby.” you giggled. 

“You always make the rules up anyway,” he grinned, and kissed the curve of your throat again, right where you were softest. “M’just trying to keep up.” His voice was velvet now. Sleepy and seductive. He tasted like mint and heat and something sweeter, like the beginning of forgiveness. Of coming home.

“I want to stay here,” you whispered, curling into him. And you didn’t mean the studio, you meant with him. He went still at that. One beat. Two. 

“Then stay.” He said quietly but certain. You blinked up at him. “Stay,” he repeated, his hand cradling the back of your head, his voice low but firm. “I don’t care. Just… stay. Like this. With me.” Your heart thudded. And you nodded.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Okay.” And then you were kissing again. Longer this time. Deeper. His arms tightened around you and you felt the moment stretch out—like the room was underwater, like the two of you had slipped between worlds and landed somewhere warmer. Softer. You didn’t care that the night was falling fast outside the studio. You didn’t care that there were conversations waiting, hard ones. This moment wasn’t about logic. It wasn’t about fixing everything. It was about being here. Together. But finally, finally… not alone.

—

The studio was still, save for the hum of one low light left glowing above. You were still curled against him on the white backdrop, skin warm against the faint chill of concrete, a tangle of limbs. Your Mac lay abandoned off to the side. Shoes scattered. Camera lenses glinting like quiet witnesses. Trent’s chest rose steady beneath your cheek, bare and golden with the warmth of leftover exertion. His arm was wrapped loosely around you, fingertips tracing slow circles against your skin like he couldn’t help himself, like still touching you was the only way to believe it had really happened. You giggled into his skin, the sound small and breathless. One of those post-high laughs that bubbled up without warning, disarmed and elated.

“This is so bad, baby” you murmured, a grin spreading against his chest. “Like I cannot believe we just did that… here.” You buried your face against him, embarrassed, the reality of what just transpired settling in. He huffed out a soft chuckle, deep in his throat. 

“Here. On the floor,” he replied, mock-incredulous. “In a studio. With two softboxes pointed directly at my bare arse.” You laughed harder, warmth blooming all over again, in your chest, your cheeks, your belly. He looked down at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, smug and fond and still dazed. Like you were his favourite miracle.

“Maybe you had a point. We should’ve kept the camera’s on,” you teased, nudging him gently with your knee. “Could’ve sold it for six figures. Hypebeast After Hours.”  He smirked, all dimple and mischief.

“You tryna monetize me now?” He teased.

“Not you,” you said sweetly. “Just your ass.” Trent tipped his head back and laughed, rich and unguarded, the sound echoing in the empty space. It made your heart ache in that delicious, overwhelming way, the way it only ever did when you remembered this was real. That he was real. Here. Holding you like something precious. The laughter faded, but the warmth stayed. He glanced down at you, thumb brushing gently over your bare hip now, slow and unthinking. 

“You feel different,” he murmured, voice lower, tender. You looked up, your smile softening. 

“Different how?” You asked him, with a tilt of the head. He swallowed. Searched for the words, like they might change everything. 

“Like you’re mine again. Even if it’s just… for right now.” He admitted and your breath caught, not from fear, but from the truth of it. From the knowing that this didn’t feel fleeting. It felt inevitable. It felt like every road had led you here, to this exact floor, this exact day, this exact version of him.

“You’re dumb,” you whispered, nudging him again, and he looked mildly offended until you added, “I never stopped being yours.” He stilled. Just for a moment. Then leaned in, pressing a kiss to your hairline. 

“Say that again.” He hummed. You buried your face back into his chest, flushed and giddy, lips brushing the skin over his heart. 

“I never stopped,” you murmured. He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on your waist like it physically pained him to hear it. Or maybe because it healed something. Silence settled again, not heavy this time, but warm. Safe. After a while, you reached for the throw and pulled it higher over you both, already sleepy, already sated.

“Next time,” you said, half-delirious, “can we do a bed?”

“Next time?” he echoed, cocking a brow. You cracked one eye open and smirked. 

“Might let you get lucky again, you never know.” His laugh was quiet, but it carried. 

“Yeah, alright then,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Just say when, baby.”

—

[Since I Have A Lover - 6lack]

The moment the studio door clicked shut behind you both, the night air kissed your bare skin with a rush of cool. It shocked a little giggle out of you, your arms hugging your chest on instinct, only for Trent to immediately drop the bags and peel his jumper off himself and wrap it over your shoulders like he’d been waiting to do it all his life. Despite your own being in your bag, he wanted you to have his.

“Didn’t think that one through, did we?” he teased, eyes flicking down your legs, still bare from where he’d all but worshipped them twenty minutes ago. 

“We were a little busy,” you shot back, tugging the jumper tighter around you, his scent still clinging to the collar.  He hummed low, grabbing the strap of your camera bag and slinging it over one shoulder, the flowers he brought you in his other hand.

“Yeah, I suppose I was otherwise occupied,” he said, voice silky and full of implication. You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile.

“You’re not funny. This was so unprofessional.” You retorted. He grinned, all smug and boyish. 

“But I am charming.” He giggled. “And trust me, what we just did was very professional. I take sex with you very seriously.” You reached to smack him, but he caught your hand mid-air, lacing your fingers through his instead like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your steps slowed together as you walked down the street, the city quiet around you, and it felt like the world had shrunk to just this, him, your hand in his, and a night full of possibilities.

“Where’s your car?” you asked, glancing around the sleepy street. He nodded toward the corner, but didn’t speed up. 

“Round there. But I’m enjoying this.” He told you.

“This?” you echoed, a little breathless at how sweetly he looked at you, like he couldn’t not look. He gave your hand a tug and pulled you into him, not rough, just greedy, playful, his free arm wrapping around your waist like gravity had its own opinion. 

“Walking slow. Dragging it out. You, clinging to me like you weren’t just whining my name on the studio floor.” He smirked, devilish and devastatingly gorgeous. 

“Baby” You whined. Your cheeks flamed, covering your face with your hands. 

“What?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, maddeningly soft. “Just saying. You looked good under those lights.” You swatted at him again, which only made him laugh and pull you even closer, nuzzling a kiss to your cheek and then another just below your ear, smug and languid. 

“So so bad,” you mumbled, even as your hand slid into the back pocket of his trousers, possessive without meaning to be.

“Speak for yourself,” he said, turning to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. barely a brush. “Personally, I thought it was fucking amazing. That image of you will stay with me for a long time. I really enjoyed myself.” You bit back a smile.

“Oh I’m sure you did. Showing up at my place of work looking for a quick fuck under the guise of bringing flowers.” You teased him and he just shook his head. 

“Nah, I showed up at your place of work to tell you I missed you. And I’ve been thinking about you.” He said honestly but his lips beginning to curl told you he was about to say more. “And look…” His smile grew, raising a hand for innocence that you knew would be a farce. “You told me to take my clothes off. I know you pretty well and trust me… you enjoyed that.” He said and you felt butterflies swarm your stomach. Completely smitten by him. And he could read it all over your face. There was no denying it. “Mmm? Thought so.” He hummed before kissing you again, properly this time, slow and sticky-sweet, his hand cradling the side of your face, like he couldn’t help but sink into it. You leaned in too, rising on your toes, heat fluttering in your chest like a second heartbeat. When you finally pulled apart, lips flushed and breath short, he rested his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. “Still buzzing,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you breathed, dazed. “Me too.” He kissed you again, just because he could. Just because you let him. And when you finally reached the car, he opened the door for you, tossed your bags in the back, then leaned one hand on the roof and the other on your waist like he was reluctant to say goodbye. 

“You driving me home?” You tilted your head.

“‘Course,” he said, cocky, leaning in to kiss the spot just beneath your jaw. “Can’t have my girl walking anywhere after fucking her on the floor. That’d be inconsiderate. You’ll be sore.” Your jaw slacked, swatting him again, laughing so hard you had to grab his shirt for balance. 

“T! Don’t say it like that! That didn’t happen!” You whined. “And wow so considerate of you…” You rolled your eyes but he kissed you mid-laugh, and this one turned into a full-blown grin, both of you tangled up in it, kisses between giggles, touches between breaths, the city spinning quiet around you.

“Definitely did happen.” He whispered. And even when he finally pulled back and rounded the car to the driver’s side, his smile stayed, like it had been stitched into him. Like whatever had broken before had been mended. Thread by thread. Touch by touch. You weren’t just buzzing. You were lit. And he was the spark that started it.

—

The car was quiet when he started it, save for the soft hum of the engine and the even softer hum of a playlist he must’ve put on earlier, low, late-night R&B, the kind with warm bass and honey-slick vocals. Trent adjusted the volume with a flick of his fingers, then glanced at you with a little half-smile like he was already remembering the way your breath had hitched under his hands.

“Seatbelt, please,” he said, voice gentle, fingers tapping the wheel. You clicked it into place, still tugging his jacket tighter around your bare legs, but his eyes flicked over you anyway, slow, amused, a little possessive. Like he was still drinking you in.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you asked, soft laughter laced behind the question. He shrugged, eyes still on the road as he pulled away from the curb. 

“Can’t help it. You look sexy.” He smirked. 

“I feel gross.” You scoffed. “It’s probably sweat.” You dragged your hand down your neck.

“It’s sex,” he corrected, glancing sideways, all grin and glint. “And joy. And a little bit of triumph.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile was spreading like wildfire. 

“Triumph?” You asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, hand resting on the gearshift. “I’ve had dreams about touching you like that. Call it unprofessional, but that wasn’t even just a fantasy, baby, that was a win.”  You laughed out loud at that, head tipping back against the seat, heart pounding from affection now, not nerves. 

“Yeah, I mean it was beyond unprofessional but I guess if I can make your dreams come true then I’m happy to help out.” He reached over to squeeze your thigh at the next red light, broad and warm and confident, his thumb rubbing small circles near your knee. You felt it everywhere. In your chest, your stomach, the soft throb between your legs. His touch was casual, but the tension simmered just beneath it, electric.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now, eyes on you again.

“Yeah. You?” You nodded. He paused like he was actually taking stock, then let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. 

“I’m better than alright. I feel like... I dunno.” His grip on your leg tightened a little. “Like I finally did something right.” Your throat tightened, unexpected emotion rising. He said it so offhandedly, like it wasn’t the most honest thing he’d told you in months. Like he didn’t realise how deeply you felt it too.

“You did. You have. Always have.” You covered his hand with yours. The light turned green, but neither of you moved right away.

“Come back to mine?” he asked quietly, thumb tracing the crease where your fingers met his. “Just to sleep. Just to hold you.” You nodded before he even finished the question. And when he started driving again, the city passing in streaks of gold through the window, you stayed like that, his hand on your thigh, your fingers tangled, the car cocooned in warmth and a shared kind of wonder. You’d had each other before. But this? This felt new. This felt good.

—

The drive back to his stayed quiet and slow, the car bathed in soft shadows and the occasional sweep of amber from passing streetlights. You watched the glow flicker across his face, his profile calm now, the tension that once sat in his jaw noticeably gone. There was no urgency in him. No need to fill the silence. Just a quiet kind of relief radiating from his whole body, like the simple fact that you were here again, beside him, was enough. When he pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine, he didn’t speak, just glanced over at you, eyes soft, then stepped out and came around to your side. The gentle click of the door opening made your chest tighten. He held it open for you, like he always did, and offered his hand as if to say you’re safe now. You took it. The moment your feet hit the ground, you felt it, the stillness in the air. Like everything had paused just for this. Just for you and him. He led the way up to the door, unlocking it with the ease of someone who wasn’t rushing, just ready. He stepped back to let you go in first, and you did, crossing the threshold into the familiar hush of his home.

Inside, everything was dipped in that quiet that only comes after something raw has been laid bare. You toed off your shoes, the soft thud of them against the floor the only sound, and shrugged off his jumper, still warm from your body. It slid from your shoulders and draped across your arm, grounding you in the reality of where you were, back here. Back with him. And he was watching you, not to rush you, not to question you, just taking you in. Like he didn’t need anything else.

“Want tea?” he offered quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, already wandering further into the living room but still offering like an after thought. You shook your head. 

“No. Just you is fine.” You said softly. His eyes cut to yours, warm and soft and stunned in that boyish way he never quite got over when it came to you. He didn’t say anything. Just turned back, closing the space and kissed you once, slow and grateful, before taking your hand and tugging you toward the sofa. You padded after him barefoot until he sank into the sofa like something hollow and you curled in right after him. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like you’d always known exactly how to fit yourself around him. The room was dim, only a lamp on in the corner. You curled into each other under a throw, your legs over his lap, his hand tracing idle shapes on your shin. It was quiet, but not empty. Quiet, but full. Like the kind of silence that holds something new. Something safe. He didn’t speak. Just buried his face in your shoulder for a beat too long, exhaling like maybe he’d been holding it in all day. His hand found the back of your shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the hem, resting on your skin, needing to feel you there. You stayed like that. Wrapped in each other, no need for questions or consolations. Just the quiet hum of his house and the steady reminder in your chest that he was yours, even when he didn’t know how to say he needed you. You shifted just enough to look at him, his lashes low, lips parted slightly, the weight of the day still heavy in his shoulders. There was something childlike about him like this. Something raw and unguarded that he rarely let show, even with you. But tonight, he didn’t pretend. And maybe he didn’t want to. Your hand found the back of his neck, thumb brushing the fade of his hair, and he melted into it like it was all he’d been waiting for. His face tucked in closer to your collarbone, nose brushing against your skin.

“I didn’t want to drop you off at your place,” he murmured, voice rough, like it hurt to admit. “I just… I just wanted you to be here.” The words fractured something inside you. Not because they were loud or grand, but because they were simple. Honest. Heavy with everything he didn’t know if he should say out loud, that he was tired of performing, of pretending he didn’t care as much as he did. That maybe this was the only place he ever really felt safe. You pulled him in tighter, fingers tracing shapes along the line of his back. 

“I know, I didn’t want to go home.” You whispered into the shell of his ear. “You don’t have to explain, baby. I’m here.” A pause. His hand drifted up beneath your top again, not out of want but out of need, like he had to ground himself in the feeling of you. Real. Warm. His. And then softer…

“Don’t go.” Your breath caught. He never said things like that. He showed them, in the little ways, bringing you tea without asking, sending songs at 2AM, remembering the way you liked your pasta done, but rarely did he let the words themselves out especially since you hadn’t returned the sentiments.  And now they sat there between you, fragile and trembling and true. You nodded against his hair, the emotion thick in your throat. 

“I wasn’t planning to.” His arms tightened around you at that, and for a moment, the entire world outside ceased to exist. There was only his quiet breathing, your steady heart, and the knowledge that whatever storm he was holding inside, you weren’t going to let him weather it alone. You almost drifted off like that, forehead tucked into his neck, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, until your eyes caught on the corner of the room. A stack of boxes, half-slumped, still sealed with parcel tape but marked in Dianne’s neat, looping handwriting.

LFC Foundation — kit + balls + shirts for signing xx

“Trent…” You blinked.  

“Hmm?” He didn’t even open his eyes.

“You still haven’t signed your mum’s stuff.” His brow furrowed against your temple. 

“Is fine, baby. I’ll do it tomorrow.” He told you casually.

“No, no, no,” you said with a giggle but still firm yet equally fond, sitting up. “You’ll do it now.” You pulled at him. He groaned, head falling back into the cushions. 

“Nah, you’re taking the piss. Just c’mere baby.” He pulled at you to come back but you held your ground with a sure smile. Trent exhaled in defeat, maybe surrender, definitely in love though. “Mum will love you, huh?” He smirked. And you’d be lying if it didn’t feel a little bit like a compliment. You grinned, already standing up. 

“She’ll love me for this.” You hummed.

“She already does,” he mumbled, but he let you pull him up, muttering about how cruel you were. You guided him by the shoulders, pushing him gently down into a chair at the dining table. He flopped dramatically, arms spread. And so he began, shirt after shirt. A sloppy scribbled ‘TAA #66’ again and again.

“Baby. I’m tired. My hand’s gonna fall off.” He complained after shirt twenty or so rolling the pen away from himself this time sure about his defeat. 

“You’re so dramatic,” you said, laughing as you cracked the tape on the next box and pulled out another shirt, then tossing him the pen back. He scribbled his name on the bottom hem with a sigh. “Oooh. Good one, baby.” You leaned over his shoulder, hands draped lazily around his neck, chin hooked just above his ear. 

“Really?” He paused mid-signature.

“Nah. That one’s crap,” you teased, deadpan, making him laugh. He nudged your thigh with his elbow. 

“You’re an actual snake.” You hummed against his cheek. 

“Oh, poor you. Sign the little boy’s shirt, superstar.” He glanced up at you, eyes narrowing. 

“What do I get for each one?” You raised a brow. 

“Excuse me?” You asked, fighting a giggle. He only smirked. 

“One kiss per signature. It’s only fair.” He explained. You clicked your tongue. 

“Bit cheeky, aren’t you?” You teased.

“Forcing my hand here, aren’t you? I’m just asking for some fair compensation.” He laughed cheekily. Childish and adorable. Like he knew he’d get exactly what he wanted. Your chest pulled tight in that way it always did around him. But you didn’t run from it this time. You leaned in, pressed a kiss just behind his ear because you’d do anything for him. Even as silly as this because you were unequivocally in love with him. 

“Right, because you need more compensation. They’re low balling you with that £180k a week, huh?” You mocked him. He shook his head at your tease. “Alright, fine.” You murmured. “A kiss per signature.” His grin was boyish. Smug. But it softened quickly when you moved to sit down sideways in his lap, your legs over his, arms looped around his neck. The box of shirts in front of you both. The pen still in his hand. You passed him the next one.  “Sign, please.” He signed, and you kissed his cheek. Again. Again. A slow rhythm building, shirts passed, signatures scrawled, your mouth to his skin, your bodies pressed too close for people who weren’t completely, irrevocably in love. Eventually, his hand slowed. His arm came around your waist, squeezing you a little tighter. 

“This is domestic as hell.” He smirked. 

“Mmhmm.” You hummed giving him a kiss, no strings attached. 

“I like it.” He told you. You kissed him behind the jaw. 

“I know.” You purred. And you stayed there like that, warm, intertwined, two people quietly learning how to belong to each other again. Even in the ordinary. Even in the mundane. Because it was never just about the kiss or the touch. It was this. You. Him. Home.

—

Morning bled in soft and slow. The kind of light that filtered through linen curtains in golden ribbons, warm against the sheets but not quite enough to pull you from sleep. Not yet. Trent stirred beside you first, you felt it in the shift of the mattress, the quiet exhale against your shoulder as he pressed closer. His hand found your waist beneath the covers, curling instinctively around you, palm broad and grounding. Like he couldn’t help it. Like even in sleep, his body remembered yours. You were sore in the way that made you ache with something deeper than just the physical. Last night hadn’t been frantic, it had been slow. Reverent. All hands and murmurs and mouths that moved like prayers. His body on yours like he’d been waiting his whole life to earn the right to worship you, not ruin you. And he had. Worshipped you, you mean. With every kiss that mapped your skin. With every breathless ‘C’mere,’ when you tried to hide your face. With every moment he held your gaze while he was inside you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he was breaking and building something all at once. You shifted now, back pressing into his chest, your legs tangling without thought. His hand drifted lower. Lazy, aimless but cheeky as always. 

“Stop trying to pretend you’re not awake.” You hummed. He groaned softly against your neck, lips brushing sleep-warm skin. 

“Was gonna let you keep dreaming.” His lips curled against you. Warm and full. Perfect too.

“I wasn’t dreaming.” You whispered tiredly, but laced with infatuation. 

“You were smiling.” He nuzzled closer. You turned slightly in his arms, and he tilted his head up just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were hazy and soft, rimmed in gold from the morning sun.

“Didn’t think I could feel like this,” you whispered, voice still thick from sleep. He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just leaned in and kissed you. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that came with urgency. It didn’t ask. It just gave. A slow press of lips to yours, his hand trailing up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. Your body melted into his, bare and already so familiar, and when he pulled back, just barely, your foreheads met like they always seemed to now. You stayed there, suspended in that syrupy quiet. Until his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

“If you have a workout to do right now…” You groaned. The mere thought of Trent leaving the bed right now made you upset.

“I don’t,” he mumbled, reaching lazily over you for it, squinting at the screen. “It’s my mum.” You laughed into the pillow. 

“Oh good.” You teased, embarrassed you were naked in his bed even if it was only a text. He chuckled, thumbs tapping. Then paused. Then he groaned.

“What?” you asked, rolling slightly to face him again. “What’d she say?” He hesitated.

“Nothing.” He was quick to respond. You narrowed your eyes.

“No, what'd she say?” You asked shifting towards him more, nosy.  He sighed dramatically, holding out the phone like it burned.

“She said — and I quote — 'I knew she was good for you. Need someone like her in your life. Prettier than she is sweet and that’s saying something, hun.” He rolled his eyes facetiously. 

“She’s not wrong.” You let out a giggle, curling into him, squeezing your arms around his waist playfully. 

“Oh really?” He said, eyes narrowing playfully as he tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. “So you agree?”

“I didn’t say that...” You batted back propping your chin on his bare chest, tilting your head up to look at him smugly. 

“You did.” He countered, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“I said she’s not wrong.” You laughed just as he rolled you beneath him in one smooth motion, sheets tangled between your legs, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress in the most delicious way. His voice dropped, low and honeyed, as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone.

“You think you’re pretty?” he asked, teasing, but there was something else buried beneath it. A quiet need. You softened immediately. 

“Baby,” you purred. But he just kept kissing down your body, each word warm and muffled against your skin.

“Too pretty. Too sexy” His lips trailed the slope of your breast, the dip between your ribs. “Softest thing I’ve ever touched…” Lower now, his breath tickled your stomach. Your fingers found his curls, gentle. “You’ve no idea what you do to me…” He kissed your hipbone, then looked up, eyes dark and aching. “No one’s ever made me feel like this,” he said, voice low and reverent. “Like I’d burn the whole world down just to stay right here.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You just pulled him back up to you and kissed him again, slow, sweet, deep, as if to say: Me too.

–

[Everything - Kehlani]

The late morning light wrapped the room in a soft, golden haze, the scent of coffee  in the air sneaking up to his bedroom. Trent had slipped out of bed before you, you could hear him moving around the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans the only sound breaking the peaceful quiet. You stretched lazily, arms above your head, and the remnants of sleep still clung to you. The room smelled like him, something earthy and warm, a mix of cologne and soap and something undeniably Trent. You let out a small sigh, still half-dreaming, before pushing yourself up to sit against the pillows, your legs curling beneath the sheets before eventually willing yourself out of the dream that was his bed. You made your way downstairs and when you padded towards the kitchen, you could see him, his bare back to you, muscles shifting as he stirred something in a pan. The sunlight hit him just right, casting shadows along his defined shoulders. He’d made a half assed effort to bring a shirt with him. The way it was lazily thrown over his shoulder made you smile, and you couldn’t help but stare. The shirt, not even in use, was practically begging to be pulled off him completely.  You tilted your head, watching as his movements became a little more exaggerated, the way he made sure you could see him. The back of his neck shimmered either from the heat of the stove or a shower. The playful smirk on his lips wasn’t lost on you, though, he knew you were watching.

“Don’t burn the bacon,” you teased, purposefully ignoring his show, voice dry from sleep. He shot you a cheeky grin over his shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” You laughed softly coming into the room, letting the cool morning air kiss your bare skin as you crossed the room, coming up behind him. The soft hum of the kitchen light and the sizzle of something vaguely resembling breakfast filled the air, but the most prominent sound was the easy rhythm of you two moving together. The morning had been lazy, wrapped in warmth, but more than that, it was familiar, so familiar that you didn’t have to think about it. It was second nature. Trent was standing at the stove, fumbling with the spatula in a way that made you smile. He had somehow managed to get a few eggs into the pan, but the way the yolks were splattered over the sides of the pan told you this wasn’t his strong suit. But you already knew that. You stepped up behind him, pulling the useless shirt off of him, placing it on the countertop before slipping your arms around his waist, the warmth of his skin instantly comforting. Your hands slid across his chest then moved them down to his abs, pressing yourself against his back. His body tensed for a moment before relaxing under the weight of you, leaning back into you.

“What are you making?” you murmured. “This isn’t your usual breakfast routine,” you teased, lips brushing against the back of his neck. He shot you a cheeky grin, his hands reaching behind himself, resting on the curve of your back, pulling you tighter against him. 

“Your favourite,” he teased, his voice low and a little gruff. “Or… well, your second favourite. First one’s... you know, me.” You bit back a smile, the warmth of his body against yours making it hard to focus. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling his warmth against your skin as your hands slid towards the pan in front of him. His fingers brushed yours as you took the spatula from him, and you hummed in approval as he let you take over stirring the eggs. “And it could be my routine for you.” He added with a cheeky tone, but it was laced with something so sincere. You weren’t awake enough to really process the offer. Did it mean something more, or was it just a passing flirty comment? You didn’t know so you responded on par with his cheek. 

“Is this your way of bribing me into staying a little longer?” you asked, your voice playfully mocking. He grinned, the hint of a challenge lighting his eyes. 

“I’m just trying to be nice to the woman I’m making breakfast for.” His hands splayed a bit wider across your back, keeping you close.  “Wouldn’t want her to go hungry.” He added. You smiled softly, your gaze flicking up to his face, still so close to your own. His hand, still warm and calloused from football workouts, but softened by £80 lotion, slid up your spine, pulling the shirt you’d nicked from him up to settle on the small of your bare back. You purred as you leaned further into him, your lips finding his shoulder.

“Mmm lucky me.” You hummed, but you weren’t talking about the food. But when you heard a sizzle you peered around him. “You’re doing a wonderful job… and by ‘wonderful’ I mean, slightly burnt.” You teased, inspecting the pan.

“I didn’t burn it,” he countered, turning his head to look at you, his nose brushing your temple. “It’s just... extra crispy.” You laughed quietly, a sweet, private sound, gently taking real control of the eggs. 

“Is it?” You giggled. “How about we just shoot for crispy. Leave the extra out.” He rolled his eyes but the help was more than welcome. “Baby,” you said quietly, humor dropping immediately, as you pressed your cheek to his back, your hands in front of him, tending to the eggs you couldn’t see, “this feels... really nice.”

“Yeah? Just wait until you taste my ‘wonderful’ brekkie” He chuckled softly, tilting his head back to kiss your hair. You laughed softly as you nuzzled your nose against his skin.

“T… you’re not exactly a chef. Stick to what you know.” His hands stayed on your waist, fingers lightly squeezing in retaliation, as you stood close behind him, guiding the spatula and gently moving the eggs around without thought. His body was a comforting presence against yours, and the natural sway of his movements made it feel like you’d been cooking together for years.

“Eh, you’ll see,” he whispered, cocking his head back to kiss you again, the scent of coffee and his cologne intoxicating as he pressed you against him, his body still warm from the stove. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“Does this feel good to you?” you murmured softly, your lips near his ear as your hands moved in front of him, as if they were his, still aimlessly pushing the eggs around. “The eggs, I mean. Does it feel good?” His chuckle rumbled low in his chest. 

“Baby, it feels really fucking good.” He said, voice thick with the teasing warmth of morning. “And I don’t mean the eggs. I forgot we were even still making them.” You grinned, lifting your chin to press a soft kiss to his jaw, the touch lingering, full of something soft and familiar. Your fingers moved the spatula with ease, working like you had all the time in the world, the delicate rhythm of your movements syncing without even thinking. You leaned forward a little further, trying to angle your head to get a better look at the eggs, but all that did was press your body more firmly against his, the heat from him sending a flutter through you. His breath came out in a soft laugh when his abdomen hit the edge of the counter, forcing him to stand a little straighter.

“Are you sure I can’t help you? I feel kind of useless.” He said, his hand sliding down your waist before letting go, his arms returning to be in front of himself, but his fingers were quick to find you again, tracing the skin of your wrist before he squeezed lightly.

“Yeah, very sure,” you replied with a smile, enjoying the closeness more than the cooking itself. “This is my kitchen now.” Trent grinned, his eyes flicking over to the pan, watching your hands  for a moment move with ease without even being able to see all that well as he stood in front of you. But he didn’t mind this, not one bit, so his hands slid back to your waist again, fingertips pressing into your sides. 

“Alright. Fine,” he sighed dramatically. “You can have the eggs. But what about everything else?” He glanced over his shoulder at you, his back to your chest, your warmth wrapping around him as his hands shifted to rest on your hips. 

“Everything else?” You asked. He turned to look at you, awkwardly craning his neck.

“The rest of the breakfast,” he said, voice a little lower now. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there. “I’m just saying, you’re lucky I don’t burn the rest of this.” You leaned your head back onto him, giving a soft laugh. 

“Burn it, and we won’t have much to eat” you murmured as your lips grazed his skin again. And you thought you caught a cheeky glimmer in his eye after your response but you weren’t sure why so you left it. The conversation drifted into comfortable silence as you continued moving around the kitchen, bodies touching seamlessly, his hands never leaving your sides, the feel of his breath on your skin reminding you of just how simple it all was. He wasn’t perfect at cooking.  You didn’t want him to be. He didn’t care to be. But it didn’t matter. Because this, this, was effortless. And so finally after more kisses than cooking, breakfast was made. You shifted slightly, getting lost in the moment of feeding him bits of the scrambled eggs, each touch becoming softer, closer, like time had slowed just for you both. And when the plates began to empty, you turned to face him fully, your hands sliding up his chest, draping around his neck,  just to really look at him, to be with him, to be close to him. Close in that unspoken way that had become second nature. He smiled at you, something soft and full of meaning behind his eyes, but no words were needed. It was there. It had been for a long time now. 

—-

The late morning light filtered in through the large window panes leading out to his back garden, slanting golden and soft across the kitchen table, wrapping everything in a warmth that felt almost borrowed from a dream. You were barefoot, Trent in slippers of course, but both of you still dressed in the quietness of sleep, the stillness of a morning that didn’t require rushing. The breakfast you’d made together sat half-finished between you, eggs slightly overdone, toast gone cold, but perfect in its own way. Trent sat beside you, legs stretched out under the table, one hand lazily trailing up and down your thigh like he couldn’t not touch you, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Your plate scraped gently as you pushed it forward, full from the food but even fuller from the domestic ease of it all,  the shared glances, the teasing over who made a better breakfast, the way you’d stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist while your hands guided his at the stove. It had all felt natural. Thoughtless. Like breathing. Then, the doorbell rang. Your brow furrowed slightly, head tilting toward the sound. 

“Are you expecting someone?” You asked but Trent only smiled, that quiet, secret kind of smile that made your stomach dip.

“Just stay right there f’me.” He kissed your temple before standing, disappearing down the corridor with the kind of calm assurance that told you he wasn’t surprised. You heard the soft click of the door, the shuffle of movement, and then he was back, slippers padding on the tiled floor, curls slightly mussed, carrying a pristine white pastry box wrapped in a soft tan-colored ribbon. He placed it gently in front of you on the table. You looked from the box to him, suspicion curling into your grin. 

“What is this?” You asked hesitantly, but without even opening it, completely smitten. 

“I stuck to what I know,” he said easily, sinking back into the chair beside you, that boyish mischief dancing in his voice. He was mocking what you said earlier, but you’d hand it to him. What he did know, he did it well. Still, you raised a brow, fingers beginning to tug at the ribbon, undoing it slowly like you knew it would make him squirm. The lid came off with a soft sigh, and your breath caught. Inside: six perfect donuts, each one glazed or dusted, some sprinkled in flecks of gold, one with delicate rose petals curled at the edges. All of them looked completely unnecessary. And completely perfect.

“T… These are so beautiful. Like I know they’re food but wow…” Your voice breathy and full of affection. Your brows lifted and you unsuccessfully tried to fight off a pout. He nudged your knee with his, scooting a little closer whilst reaching for your chair to tug it closer to his. 

“They’re champagne donuts.” He said meekly, like he was worried, maybe this was all silly. You looked up at him, startled by the tenderness in his voice. It wasn’t about the donuts. Not really. “I know it’s not a London hotel,” he said, voice quieter now, almost unsure. “With 2am truffle chips and Dom being popped. But it’s still morning. Still… you and me. And I thought maybe…” He trailed off. His hand was on your leg, but his eyes flicked away, unsure. Embarrassed. You turned fully toward him, your heart doing that gentle ache, the one that only happened when he got shy in the midst of loving you. His brows furrowed faintly. “Sorry. Maybe it’s a bit dumb. I just…” He exhaled. “I thought you might like…” Your expression softening as his words slowed.

“Trent,” you whispered, reaching for him before he could talk himself down further. You smiled, shaking your head, giggling softly, slipping from your chair to his lap, arms curling around his shoulders as your knees bracketed his thighs  His hands found your waist instantly, like he’d been waiting. You leaned in, letting your nose brush his, eyes glinting. “It’s not dumb.” A smile tugged at your lips, soft and sure. “Thank you, baby...” You whispered. He looked at you then, really looked, and in his eyes was something deep and glimmering. Something ancient and boyish and terrified all at once. 

“Yeah?” He blinked. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, brushing your lips across his cheek. And then you added, with a playful lilt that masked the sincerity beneath it, “Maybe champagne and donuts can be part of our breakfast routine at home.” At home. The word echoed somewhere in his chest, reverberated through his ribcage like a secret he hadn’t dared say aloud. You weren’t just here. You belonged. He didn’t say anything. Just leaned forward, pressing his lips softly beneath your jaw, a kiss full of reverence.

“Will you try one with me?” he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, soft as the morning sun bleeding through the windows. You nodded, lips curving, a smile stitched together by emotion you wouldn’t dare let fall, not over a donut, not over this, not now. He reached into the box, selecting the one dusted in gold like it had been dipped in daylight. His fingers broke off a piece with reverence, careful, like he didn’t want to ruin its shape. But his eyes never left yours. Not once. He held it up between you, waiting.

“No games this time, though,” you whispered, teasing, but your voice wavered, too wrapped in memory to fully play. His lips quirked. But he didn’t laugh. He only shook his head, voice low and sure. 

“No games, baby.” And something about the way he said it, like a vow stitched between heartbeats, made you feel a little bit drunk. Dizzy, but soft with it. And it wasn’t the champagne in the donut. It wasn’t even the sugar. It was the memory of London, of two A.M. on a hotel bed, truffle chips balanced on crisp white sheets, his bare chest rising with quiet laughter as he tossed one your way and dared you to catch it with your mouth. You did, barely. He kissed you like you were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. That was the last time you played a game and neither of you wanted to anymore. It wasn’t the donuts, you both knew you were talking about something bigger. No more games. So you leaned in, slow, languid, like time was on your side. You kissed his wrist first, featherlight, then the back of his hand. He stilled. Breath hitched. Then you kissed the tip of his finger before taking the piece from him with your lips, your eyes never breaking from his. It wasn’t just a bite. It was an answer.

“I like the idea of champagne and donuts being our thing,” you murmured, your voice wrapped in something warm, half sugar, half something deeper. “Chips for hotels… donuts for home.” He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, eyes soft and searching, like you’d cracked something open inside him with that one word again. Home. His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a quiet caress.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice low and certain. “I’m okay with that. Donuts for home.” And in the silence that followed, he just… looked at you. Like he was falling in love all over again, and he knew he couldn't ever not. You smiled through it, nodding. “They good?” he asked, watching the way you chewed with a quiet kind of awe. 

“Yeah, try, baby,” You turned to pick up another piece to offer him, but when you looked back, he was already close, leaning in with that look that said everything before his lips even touched yours. He kissed you slow, reverent. Like I love you. Like I’m here. Like you’re it. When he pulled back, his voice was a soft hum against your mouth.

“Perfect.” And all you could do was smile, because somehow, this boy had turned morning and powdered sugar into something that felt like forever. You both knew. The game was over. And neither of you wanted to play anymore. And in the quiet hum of the kitchen, with sugared fingers and tangled knees and the scent of champagne glaze in the air, you tasted sweetness that had nothing to do with pastry. It was him. It was you. It was home.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 22 Coming Soon!

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[ballsbalb]

anfield booing trent, oh how i love liverpool football club. this is your legacy now, mate— a rat and a traitor, and no fake tears or stupid videos will change that

[itsfootballbih]

*sigh* he’s still gorgeous🙄

[mariejuli]

Ugh, pretty boyyyy 😩

[pennybr566]

LOLLL BRO SAID PART WAYS. EMOTIONLESS. WELL IG 8 YEAR FREINDSHIPS CAN BREAK JUST LIKE THAT

and he said he doesn’t know what aura farming is 😭😭😭 bro is a farm of aura

virg standing on business

[ethanfundraising]

"In 2006, my father underwent heart surgery and then, with permanent treatment, he started to regain some of his routine. He continued to work to support our family. In 2021, tests showed that an artificial joint should be installed. The operation was successful. After that, he continued with chronic treatment, but he did not give up and continued to work so he could continue to support our family. After that, the war came. He suffered from horrible pain in his heart and his joints. He endured a year of lack of food and medicine until his condition deteriorated. He is now in the hospital, but he needs treatment that is not found in northern Gaza and the cost of treatment is very high. Please help us treat my father and continue to stay alive." - @heba-baker

This campaign has been vetted.

Please donate even $5-$10 in order to help a Palestinian family survive genocide.

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Tagging, DM to be removed:

@sliceofdyke @g00ngala @littlegermanboy @jame7t @kropotkindersurprise @niqabisinparis @no-gods-no-masters-tshirts @pukicho @paper-mario-wiki @tamamita @weltenwellen @xinakwans @zhuiren @graciouswings @grillwizard @sillymeter @batmanshole @dinerva @ardley @aesthetic @atalienart @astrolavas @beebeedibapbeediboop @botan @buggachat @bi-trans-alliance @black-girl-makeup @color-palettes @catchymemes @cassandrajean @creativepromptsforwriting @crimson-chains @drawingden @daily-prompts @design-art-architecture @develop-your-oc @discount-supervillain @egberts @evermore-fashion @enenkaydoodles @eliotbaum @elasticitymudflap @fyblackwomenart @fannyrosie @fuckyeahgravityfalls @filibusterfrog @gawki @gr8writingtips @gravityfying ⭐️ Sorry for the tag!

[halfturn]

[everything-maxriemelt]

I wouldn’t boo him when he’s playing for us because I don’t want him to be a distraction for the team.

But yeah, I understand why some would.

[svolazi]

Hearing those (well deserved) boos… games back 🙂‍↕️

[trentione]

chilling and vibing

[trentlife]

he LOVES that baby 😭🥹

[lexqa]

real madrid lost the el clasico

trent was booed when he came on

robbo got an assist + goal (it was a goal to me y’all idc)

life is good

[itsfootballbih]

My fav Alexander Arnold at the moment💗

[mariejuli]

Not to be dramatic but he was literally unstoppable with that hair 😭 I just know I was obsesse