die with a smile bruno mars and lady gaga ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

Nash Hawthorne wasn’t supposed to be your problem. Alisa called it a savior complex, the way he hovered, always conveniently there when you didn’t want him to be. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like just that. It was infuriating.

Tonight was one of those nights he’d decided to stay in your wing of the sprawling Hawthorne estate. As if there weren’t dozens of other rooms to haunt, he always ended up here. Months of this “not-dating” arrangement had turned into something of that sort.

“Not-dating,” of course, was your term. Nash had agreed to it with one of those slow, wide grins, like he was in on a joke you didn’t know. For him, it meant sneaking glittery cowboy hats into your closet, teasing you until your patience ran thin, and lingering beside you while you baked— always baking. He was, annoyingly, a near-perfect “not-boyfriend,” and you hated how much you didn’t hate it.

You found him asleep on the couch earlier, hat tipped over his face, boots propped up on your coffee table like he owned the place. Now, he was awake and in the doorway, watching you. You didn’t look up from the batter you were stirring, even when you heard his boots shuffle closer.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, voice like honey slipping through the cracks.

You kept your eyes on the bowl, mixing stubbornly. Nash leaned a hip against the counter, his hazel eyes tracing your profile. First, how pretty you looked, and second, the bruise creeping up under your makeup. A black eye.

Drake. He knew without asking.

Nash reached out, slow and deliberate, brushing his thumb beneath your eye. His touch was soft, and his lips ticked into that grin, though this one didn’t quite meet his eyes. “New makeup?” he murmured, his tone light.

He didn’t miss the way you clenched your jaw, didn’t miss the storm brewing beneath your lashes. Good. He’d rather make you mad than let you sit with whatever hurt you weren’t saying out loud.