king of everything dominic fike ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

The Walmart parking lot wasn’t glamorous, but neither were you or Dominic, at least not when it was just the two of you. He liked it that way—anonymity in the middle of fluorescent lights and cracked asphalt, a moment far from cameras and curated personas.

Dominic was in the driver’s seat, his sleeve pushed up to reveal the tangle of tattoos on his forearm, pen poised over a tiny notebook. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling lazily out of the open window. The smell of it mixed with the faint, plasticky scent of Walmart bags in the backseat. He took a drag, scribbled a word, then scratched it out almost immediately.

"I'll take my time to make you smile," he muttered under his breath, testing the line aloud. Then, shaking his head, he frowned. "Nah, that’s corny as hell."

You were reclined in the passenger seat, legs tucked up and head tilted to watch him. You’d tried to convince him that maybe parking lots weren’t the height of romance, but Dom was insistent: Walmart reminded him of who he used to be, back when he was just some kid in Naples, Florida, scribbling lyrics in the margins of his homework.

“That’s what it is, though,” he had said earlier, leaning across the console with a grin too wide for his face. “Bringing my bougie-ass supermodel girlfriend to Walmart. A full-circle moment.”

Now, you watched the way his brows furrowed when he didn’t like something he wrote, the way his knuckles brushed against his lips when he thought. Even in the dim glow of the parking lot’s streetlights, he looked like he belonged on an album cover.