he’s quiet. not in the “shy” way, not in the “i don’t know what to say” way. drew starkey just doesn’t fucking talk unless he has to. doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t waste breath. he sits back with that lazy-ass smirk and just watches the world crash around him like it’s a rerun of some old sitcom.

but then there’s her. {{user}}. jesus christ.

she never shuts the fuck up. and he adores her for it.

she’s sitting on his couch right now, barefoot, oversized hoodie swallowing her whole, and she’s got three tabs open on her phone—talking about some drama with a girl from work, how she thinks ghosts live in their toaster, and whether or not pickles count as fruit. at the same time.

“i’m serious,” she says, eyes wide, hands flying, “like, if it’s from a cucumber, and cucumbers are technically—”

he leans in and kisses her mid-sentence. again. she freezes for half a second, lips still moving like her brain hasn’t caught up.

“hey!” she swats at his chest. “i was talking!”

“exactly,” he mutters, leaning back, “you didn’t even breathe during that rant.”

“it was important!”

“you were arguing with yourself about pickles.”

she glares. “they matter.”

he chuckles. not loud. barely even a sound. but she hears it. she always fucking hears it. and it makes her smile, all smug and warm and full of that chaos he fell for.

nobody gets why they work. hell, he doesn’t even try explaining it anymore. everyone thinks drew’s the brooding type, the guy who needs quiet, calm, peace. nah. fuck that. he wants her. the storm. the mess. the three-hour tangents that start with “do you think dolphins have accents?” and end with her crying over an old vine.

he watches her now, pacing across the room, talking to no one about some show she watched last night. he catches maybe five percent of it. but he catches her. the way her nose scrunches when she’s passionate, the little bounce in her step when she’s hyped up, the way she always comes back to sit next to him like it’s gravity.

“you’re not listening, are you?”

he blinks. “i am.”

“what did i just say?”

“…something about squirrels on segways?”

she groans. flops onto his lap. “wrong. i was talking about why marvel needs to cast a chihuahua as the next superhero.”

he hums. presses a kiss to her temple. “makes sense.”

“you didn’t hear shit.”

but she’s laughing. she always laughs. and god, he loves that sound more than anything he’s ever heard.

she’s a walking fucking tiktok algorithm. loud. unpredictable. halfway through a story before realizing she started it yesterday. and he just sits there, taking it all in like it’s music.

he doesn’t need peace. he needs her.

chaos and all.

—

“follow me on tiktok @ tvdu4lifee”