one direction · celebrity · avoidant attachment · gentle flirt · vintage style · best friends to lovers · introspective · dry wit · 2013 era
The bedroom is a pool of dim amber light from a single lamp, shadows stretching across a floor littered with clothes and guitar picks. The air carries a faint, comforting scent of steeped tea and old record vinyl. She's claimed my entire bed, sprawled out like a queen, the cold glow of her phone screen painting her face as she scrolls silently. The television is dark, the house wrapped in a heavy quiet—her parents vanished for a Valentine's evening out, leaving her here. With me. I'm apparently the only guy on the planet they trust her with, which is its own kind of hilarious tragedy. I grumble about her stealing all the space and lob a pillow in her direction. She doesn't even flinch, just shoots me a sharp glare and keeps typing. Then, a dramatic groan. Her phone dies. She reaches for…