𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾

Romantic Lover

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You sit quietly on the edge of the couch, your mind tangled in a web of thoughts that only seem to make everything heavier. The room is dim, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over your face. You try to focus, but the weight of the world presses on your chest. Everything feels too much today.

Timothée stands in the doorway for a moment, watching you, his expression soft. He knows something's wrong, and it's not like him to just let you struggle in silence. He doesn't say a word at first, just steps closer, his presence steady and warm.

"Hey," he whispers gently, kneeling down in front of you, his fingers brushing the back of your hand. His voice is calm, the kind of calm that pulls you out of your thoughts. "What’s going on, love?"

You try to speak, but words fail you. The sadness feels too big to explain, too deep to put into any sort of coherent sentence. But Timothée doesn't push. He just watches you with those warm, understanding eyes, as though he’s ready to listen for as long as it takes.

And then, without another word, he wraps his arms around you. His embrace is so familiar, so comforting, it feels like the world outside doesn't matter anymore. He pulls you close, your head resting on his shoulder as his fingers gently trace circles on your back. His warmth is all-encompassing, and for a moment, you can’t help but let go.

"Shh..." he murmurs, holding you tighter. "I’ve got you. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m here."

His touch is soft, the way his hand rubs your back, as though he’s trying to smooth away every bit of worry, every piece of sadness. And somehow, in his arms, the world feels a little less heavy. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, a reminder that no matter how much the world might weigh on you, he's here to carry it with you.

The silence between you two is full of understanding. You don't need to explain everything. You just need him to be there. And he is. Always.

The weight on your chest eases, little by little, as his soothing words and quiet presence start to make the world feel softer. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being together, even in the moments where everything feels broken.

Timothée’s fingers run through your hair now, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head softly. “We’ll get through this. Together,” he says quietly.

I love him

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’re standing at the edge of a quiet park, watching the golden light of dusk stretch across the horizon. The world feels both too big and too small at the same time, but as you turn your head, you see him—Timothée. He’s sitting on the bench, looking at you with that quiet smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

You feel a familiar knot tighten in your chest. There’s something about him, something pure in the way he makes you feel. But it also scares you. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In places where love felt too heavy, too much to bear. Past relationships have left scars, and sometimes, you’re not sure if you can let anyone in again.

But Timothée doesn’t rush you. He never does. He watches you, his gaze soft and understanding, as though he sees the parts of you that even you don’t want to face. You can tell he knows. He knows you’re unstable, that your past weighs on you in ways you haven’t even shared. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays.

You take a step toward him, your heart racing. When you sit beside him, you can feel the warmth of his presence, steady and reassuring. He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t need to. His love is quiet, like a whisper that says, I’m here, and I’ll wait.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt,” he says, his voice low, just above a whisper. There’s no judgment in his words, only understanding. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

And you feel it. That truth. The certainty that for once, someone is here for you, just as you are. Your heart trembles, caught in the weight of it all. The fear, the doubt, the belief that no one could ever love you in the way you need. Yet Timothée, with his gentle hands and his even gentler heart, shows you a love that is real, a love that’s not built on perfection but on understanding.

He doesn’t say much, but it doesn’t matter. In this quiet moment, you know that his love is exactly what you’ve needed, even when you didn’t believe it was possible. His love is the best thing that’s ever happened to you—steady, patient, and never too much, never too fast.

You feel like you can breathe.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks, his voice soft and vulnerable.

You don’t have to answer. You don’t need to. Because in his arms, in his eyes, you already understand. And somehow, that feels like enough.

𝓜𝓲𝓭𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓒𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼

James Potter x Reader

It was too late. James had been fast asleep, his dreams filled with the usual chaos of Quidditch matches and pranks, when a noise from the kitchen jolted him awake. He sat up, his messy hair even more untamed than usual, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn't quite place.

You weren't in bed.

Frowning, he pushed off the covers, feet hitting the cold floor as he grabbed his wand from the nightstand. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his bare feet.

And then—another sound. A soft rustling, followed by the unmistakable scent of something sweet.

James paused in the doorway to the kitchen, taking in the scene before him. There you were, bathed in the moonlight spilling through the window, standing by the counter with a bowl of strawberries in your hands. Your oversized sweater—his sweater—hung loosely over your growing belly.

He leaned against the doorframe, a slow grin forming on his lips. "You know, love, if you were going to sneak out for a midnight feast, the least you could do is invite me."

You turned, eyes wide in the dim light, a strawberry halfway to your mouth. "James!" you gasped, nearly dropping the fruit. "You scared me."

He chuckled, padding over to you. His hands instinctively found your waist, fingers grazing the curve of your belly as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Couldn't help it," he murmured. "Woke up and my wife was missing. Thought I was about to face some kind of home invasion. Turns out, it’s just my girl stealing fruit in the dead of night."

You huffed, popping the strawberry into your mouth. "The baby wanted them," you mumbled around the bite, cheeks warm as his eyes softened at your words.

His grin widened. "Oh, so that’s how it is? Blaming the cravings on the little one, are we?"

You rolled your eyes but didn't protest when he reached into the bowl, plucking a berry and holding it up to your lips. His gaze never left yours as you took a slow bite, his fingers brushing against your chin.

For a moment, everything was still. Just the two of you in the quiet of the night, the taste of strawberries lingering between kisses, and the steady rhythm of a new life growing between you.

James sighed contentedly, pressing his forehead against yours. "You know," he whispered, "I can't wait to meet them. But I think I love them already—because they’re a part of you."

Your heart swelled, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him into another kiss, slow and sweet.

"Well," you teased, brushing your nose against his, "if they take after you, we might be in trouble."

James laughed, wrapping his arms around you, warm and steady. "Oh, love," he murmured, voice thick with adoration. "We're already in trouble. But I wouldn't have it any other way."

𝒘𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓

The Marauders x Reader

You lie still, your body heavy beneath the weight of the blankets, but it’s the emotional weight pressing down on you that keeps you rooted to the bed. The room is dim, the soft light of the late afternoon sun barely cutting through the curtains. The world feels distant, muffled, like it’s all happening somewhere far away that you can’t reach.

You haven't felt like getting up for days. Your thoughts are tangled, and your heart seems too tired to care. It’s been a struggle, and every time you close your eyes, the darkness seems to take over just a little more.

But today... today something is different.

You hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching, followed by a familiar voice, the one that always manages to make you feel just a little less alone. It's Sirius, though his voice is quieter than usual. He knows you’ve been struggling, and he doesn’t want to push, not when you’re clearly hurting so much. “Hey, you still with us?” he asks gently, his head peeking around the doorframe. His messy hair falls in front of his eyes, and you can see the concern etched on his face, even in the dim light.

You don’t respond, not at first, but you don’t need to. He knows.

Behind him, James slips in, his usual exuberance toned down today, as if he too recognizes the weight that hangs in the air. His eyes are softer than usual as he sits at the edge of your bed, carefully, like he’s afraid the wrong move might break something in you. “We brought snacks,” he says lightly, as if the mention of food could somehow bridge the gap between where you are and where they want you to be. But you don’t react, not right away.

Sirius sits next to you on the other side, his presence warm and comforting. “It’s okay, you know,” he says quietly, and you can feel the sincerity in his words, like he’s trying to make sure you understand. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... just let us be here.”

You want to reach out, but your hands feel frozen, as though they might crumble if you try. But somehow, Remus is there too, sitting beside James, his calm voice breaking through the silence. “We’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to be alone with this.”

And just like that, the space around you feels a little less cold. The three of them settle in around you, not asking you to speak, not demanding anything from you, just offering themselves—offering their company, their support, their friendship.

You feel Sirius nudge you lightly, a playful smile in his voice. “So, what do you say, then? You up for a game of wizard’s chess? I promise I’ll let you win this time.”

James chuckles, rolling his eyes. “As if. We all know you’ll win anyway, Padfoot. You always do.”

“Not the point, Prongs,” Sirius teases, nudging you again. “It’s about the fun. Let’s just sit here for a while, yeah?”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes, and there’s no judgment there—only a quiet understanding. The same goes for James, who gently sets down the snacks, and Remus, whose presence alone seems to soothe the ache inside you.

You don’t have to say anything, not now. You know they’ll stay with you, no matter how long it takes for the fog to lift. There’s no rush. No pressure.

You feel a flicker of something—something warm, something that feels a little like hope.

Maybe it’ll take time to feel like yourself again. Maybe it’ll take time for the weight to lift. But you don’t have to carry it alone.

And that, in itself, is enough.

Like The Movies

James Potter x Reader

You never thought it would happen to you—that kind of love, the one you read about in old books or saw in movies. It’s a love you dream about, but never expect to find. Your friends have always thought you a bit of a hopeless romantic, someone who believes in fairytales despite how many times you've been let down. You'd been burned once, twice, too many times to count, and now, you just couldn't see how anything could live up to the dreamy ideas in your head.

But then James Potter came into your life.

It started small. A glance, a casual brush of his hand against yours in the crowded corridors of Hogwarts. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. No one had ever been good enough for you—no one had ever been what you imagined, no one had made your heart race the way you’d always hoped. But there was something about him. He was different.

James Potter had always been the joker, the one who was loud and reckless, always at the center of attention. But behind that mischievous grin and the jokes he cracked with Sirius and Remus, you began to notice another side. A gentler side. It wasn’t immediately obvious—he wasn't one to show vulnerability—but every now and then, you caught glimpses of a quieter James. It was those moments that caught your attention and made you question everything you thought you knew about love.

You had always imagined your romance like a scene straight out of a movie, a perfect fairytale. And yet, here you were, falling for someone who was far from perfect. He didn’t make grand declarations or sweep you off your feet in dramatic gestures. No, he was more subtle than that, more genuine. The first time it truly hit you was one rainy evening, your feet splashing through the puddles on the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

James was walking with you, of course, because that’s just what he did—never let anyone walk alone. The rain fell heavily around you both, soaking through your robes, but neither of you seemed to care. You both laughed at the ridiculousness of it, trying to dodge puddles, failing miserably.

And then, just like that, he took your hand. No words, just a simple act, one that sent a shock of warmth through you even as the rain soaked you both to the bone. The sound of the rain, the laughter you shared—it felt like the start of something real, something more than you had ever dared hope for.

Over the weeks that followed, the two of you shared more moments like that. The two of you would sneak into bars in Hogsmeade, escaping the confines of the castle, your laughter spilling into the air as the two of you hid in the corners. You'd stare up at the stars together, your heart beating wildly, your fingers brushing in a way that made you feel like you were dancing, even without music. He never once told you he loved you, but the way he looked at you, the way he’d quietly hold you when you were sad—those were the things that made you realize what you’d never allowed yourself to believe.

One evening, after a particularly heated game of Quidditch, you found yourself under a stormy sky with him. It was one of those nights where the clouds hung low and dark, threatening to spill over. But neither of you cared. As the rain began to fall, you both stood there, drenched, and, without a word, began to sway, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. It was just the two of you—no audience, no expectations—just a quiet moment beneath the storm, as the world seemed to disappear around you.

Maybe you were just old-fashioned, you thought, believing in love like that. But in that moment, standing under the stormy sky with James, you felt like you were living out the kind of fairytale you'd always dreamed of.

You never thought you’d fall in love again, at least not in the way you had imagined. But here you were, holding James Potter, heart and soul entwined with his. Maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of love you’d always wanted.

And just when you thought you’d given up on love—just when you believed that no one could ever be good enough—you realized you were wrong. James Potter was exactly what you needed, the one who had always been there, in ways you hadn’t even noticed until now.

And in the end, maybe it was just that simple.

Maybe you'd finally found the love you'd been waiting for, after all.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The city lights flicker like distant stars, casting a golden glow over the quiet streets as you walk beside Carlos, your heels dangling from your fingers. The night air is crisp, cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth radiating from him. Your arm is looped through his, your body leaning into his side for balance—not just from the cocktails still buzzing in your veins, but from the sheer exhaustion of dancing, laughing, living in the moment.

Carlos glances down at you, his lips curving into a small, amused smile. “You okay, princesa?” His voice is soft, edged with that familiar Spanish lilt that makes your heart skip a beat.

You hum in response, tilting your head to look up at him. “Mhm. Just tired,” you admit, your cheek resting briefly against his shoulder. “And maybe a little tipsy.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. “I can tell,” he teases, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “But I think you just wanted an excuse to hold onto me.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him playfully. “As if I need an excuse,” you murmur, feeling bold under the haze of the night.

The streets are nearly empty, the world around you quiet except for the occasional distant honk of a car or the rhythmic click of a streetlamp buzzing above. It feels like you and him exist in a little pocket of time, away from everything—away from the noise, the cameras, the chaos of the world he belongs to.

“You didn’t have to walk me back,” you say after a beat, though secretly, you’re glad he insisted.

Carlos exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Of course, I did. Can’t let you wander around barefoot in the middle of the night. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

You laugh, squeezing his arm. “A very bad one,” you tease, earning a smirk from him.

You reach the entrance of the hotel, the grand glass doors reflecting the two of you standing close, wrapped up in something unspoken. You should let go, step back, but neither of you do. His hand lingers near your wrist, his thumb grazing your skin in lazy circles, sending a rush of warmth through you.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more intimate.

You nod, searching his eyes—deep brown, warm like melted chocolate, laced with something unreadable. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Did you?”

Carlos doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight, his fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath catches, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs finally, his gaze never leaving yours. “I did.”

The space between you seems to shrink, electricity crackling in the air. Your fingers tighten around his arm, your body instinctively swaying closer.

“Carlos…” you whisper, unsure of what you’re asking, what you’re wanting—until his hand cradles the side of your face, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone.

“What?” he breathes, voice hushed, his forehead nearly resting against yours.

The night stands still, the city quiet, the only sound the shared breaths between you.

𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

The first rays of dawn creep through the gossamer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. You awaken to the quiet rustle of movement nearby, your heart quickening before your eyes even open. The subtle aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the faint scent of cedar and citrus—his scent, distinctly Alexei.

When you finally open your eyes, he is there by the window, his silhouette framed by the early morning glow. Alexei Vronsky, ever the picture of effortless elegance, is dressed in a loose white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark trousers that cling perfectly to his lean form. His dark hair is tousled, his face turned toward the pale morning sky. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

His head turns at the sound, and when his eyes meet yours, they soften instantly, a rare and fleeting vulnerability in their depths. He crosses the room in long strides, the faintest smile playing on his lips. The smile is just for you—it always is.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. “But the light...it was too perfect not to watch.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip from your shoulder. “And you didn’t think to share it with me?”

“I wanted to preserve the peace,” he replies, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. His hand trails down your arm, tracing idle patterns against your skin. “But I’m glad you’re awake. The morning is always better with you.”

You laugh softly, the sound seeming to warm him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finding your lips. The kiss is unhurried, tender, as though he has all the time in the world for you—and only you.

“Shall we take our coffee outside?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and intimate. “The garden is beautiful this time of day.”

“Only if you promise to keep me warm,” you tease, though you already know he will.

His eyes darken slightly, filled with something deeper than just affection. “Always,” he vows.

And with that, Alexei rises, holding out his hand to you. The morning stretches ahead, full of promises whispered in golden light and moments shared in quiet intimacy.

𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

You stand in the middle of the cozy kitchen, apron tied clumsily around your waist, hands fumbling with the cutting board. The recipe you found online seemed simple enough, but as you glance back and forth between the instructions and the ingredients sprawled out on the counter, doubt starts to creep in.

Leon leans casually against the doorway, his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His presence alone is enough to distract you, but he doesn’t say anything—just watches you struggle with the knife as you attempt to chop an onion.

“I can do it myself,” you say, without looking up.

“I know you can,” he replies, his voice calm and full of warmth. “But let me.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching the soft glint of amusement in his blue eyes. He’s already pushing off the doorframe and rolling up his sleeves. His movements are so natural, so unassuming, and you’re left staring as he gently takes the knife from your hand.

“You don’t trust me?” you tease, stepping aside to let him take over.

“Of course I do,” he says, picking up the onion you’d abandoned. “I just trust me more with sharp objects.”

You laugh at that, and the sound seems to light up the room, even in the dim glow of the kitchen. Leon glances at you briefly, and for a moment, there’s something in his expression—something unspoken yet so profoundly tender.

As he starts to chop the onion with precision, you can’t help but admire the way his hands move, confident and skilled. His hair falls slightly into his face, and you resist the urge to brush it back.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur.

He pauses, his knife hovering above the cutting board. Turning to you, he leans in just enough that the warmth of his proximity makes your heart race.

“You’ve been doing everything all day,” he says softly, his voice steady but gentle. “Let me take care of you for once.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that leaves you momentarily speechless. He’s always been like this—selfless, always putting others first. You reach up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Fine,” you concede, folding your arms. “But don’t think this means you’re getting out of dishes.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and the way he looks at you in that moment—like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your chest tighten.

“Deal,” he says, going back to the onion.

You lean against the counter, watching him work, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. The room smells of fresh ingredients and something else entirely—comfort, safety, and a quiet kind of love.

And as Leon finishes chopping and moves on to help with the rest of the meal, you realize that moments like this—simple, quiet, and shared—might just be your favorite kind of adventure with him.

Good father

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Anakin Skywalker stood by the window, looking out into the starry expanse of space. The distant stars twinkled like tiny pinpoints of hope. But in his heart, a storm raged. His past was a web of regret, pain, and loss, but now the future loomed before him with hope. Two little lives. Two precious twins. Luke and Leia.

The faint sound of their soft cries drifted in from the other room. Anakin closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sound with a tenderness that surprised even him. He wasn't used to that kind of love, the pure, unwavering devotion a father felt for his children. His thoughts drifted back to the first time he'd held them in his arms, their tiny faces wrinkled in confusion and wonder. They were perfect, a reflection of his redemption, and yet he felt unworthy of them.

As the days passed, Anakin found himself struggling with the idea of fatherhood. His life as a Jedi had never prepared him for this—he had been trained to fight, to serve, to protect, but never to care. Yet there he was, standing on the threshold of a new beginning, wanting to be the best father he could be.

He heard footsteps behind him. A soft, warm presence enveloped him like a comforting blanket. Anakin turned to find her standing there—his wife, his mate, his love. The woman who had helped him find the light again.

You smiled, your eyes filled with quiet strength. “They’re hungry,” you said softly.

Anakin nodded, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I want to help… but I’m not sure how.”

You walked to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re already doing that,” you assured him. “Just by being here, by wanting to be involved, you’re already showing them how much you care about them.”

He smiled, grateful for your words, though doubts still lingered in his heart. They had always shared a deep connection, one that had been forged in both passion and struggle. But now they were parents, and there was no guide to tell him what to do. He could feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but there was something else, too, something more powerful than the fear that had once controlled him. It was love.

As they entered the nursery, Anakin took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his son’s blanket. Luke’s small hand curled around his finger, and the world seemed to slow down, leaving only the warmth of that small hand. Leia, wrapped up next to her brother, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Anakin admitted quietly, his voice filled with vulnerability. “But I want to try. I want to be a good father to them.”

You stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You already are. They will grow up knowing your love, your strength, and your heart. That is all they need.”

Anakin nodded, feeling the weight of your words settle in his chest. It wasn’t about being perfect, it was about being there, showing up every day, even when doubts clouded his mind. He had once feared his own ability to love, thinking it was a weakness that would destroy him. But now, with Luke and Leia in his arms, he realized it was his greatest strength.

The sound of the twins’ cries soon filled the room again, and Anakin smiled softly, his heart filling with tenderness. He was no longer the young Jedi who had once struggled to control his emotions. He had learned that love, in its purest form, was not something to be feared, it was something to be embraced.

Together, they cared for their children that night, and in every tender touch and every glance shared between them, Anakin knew that this was where he belonged. He was no longer alone. And for the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly be a father.

Love Grows

Laurie Laurence x Reader

You’re sitting cross-legged on the patchy grass outside the Marches’ house, a canvas propped up on your knees and a brush clutched in your fingers. The late afternoon sun catches the fiery strands of your untamed red hair, making them glow like embers. You’re trying to capture the scene in front of you—a mix of sun-dappled trees and the charming, worn shutters of the house but your mind keeps wandering.

And then, of course, he appears. Laurie Laurence. Teddy, as Jo calls him, but you prefer Laurie. There’s something about the way the name rolls off your tongue that feels like music.

“Painting again?” His voice is warm, teasing. You don’t look up immediately. Instead, you dip your brush into a streak of crimson and drag it across the canvas.

“Observant as ever,” you reply dryly, though you’re secretly glad he came. He always comes. There’s something magnetic about Laurie—the way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the way his laughter feels like a promise of mischief. You know he doesn’t belong to you, not really. He belongs to Jo, or maybe to the whole March family. But when he’s here, leaning lazily against the fence like he has all the time in the world for you, it’s easy to imagine otherwise.

“What are you working on today?” he asks, stepping closer. You can feel his shadow fall across your canvas.

You shrug, deliberately nonchalant.

Laurie chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your heart skip. “You’re full of mysteries, you know. People talk about you, you know that? They say your hair’s wild, your clothes don’t match, and that you’re always mumbling about colors no one else can see. They think you’re crazy.” He says it lightly, but there’s something in his tone—a challenge, maybe.

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. “And what do you think?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“I think,” Laurie says slowly, “that the world would be a much duller place without you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but before you can respond, Laurie drops to the ground beside you, long legs sprawled carelessly. He plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers. “Teach me,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Teach you what?”

“To see the world the way you do.” He gestures vaguely at your painting. “To make it look so alive, so...wild. Like you.”

There’s a tenderness in his voice you’re not used to, and it disarms you. You hand him the brush before you can second-guess yourself. “Here. You try.”

Laurie takes the brush with a grin, but as he awkwardly drags it across the canvas, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you tease.

“Hopelessly charmed, maybe,” he retorts, and the way he looks at you then, eyes soft and searching, makes your breath catch. You wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you, if he feels the same pull that you do.

For a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you, the colors on your canvas forgotten. Laurie leans closer, so close you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. “You know,” he murmurs, “you’re kind of a mystery to me, too.”

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, it’s gone. Laurie leans back, grinning like the scoundrel he is, and hands you the brush. “You’re a better teacher than I am a student,” he says.

But his words linger, and as the sun sets and the colors deepen, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a mystery to him after all.