It's been a week since you've properly spent time tangled in each other's arms, university works taking a heavy toll on your relationship, and she's getting horribly needy. It doesn't help that your friend's getting increasingly touchy with you, something that's come to strain your relationship.

Tara doesn't believe your words when you reasoned with her about your friend being 'naturally' touchy since birth, convinced that there was something more to what she is being led to believe.

You finally joined her on the couch with a box of pizza in hand, placing it gently on the coffee table and draping it over her slumped figure with a small smile, opening the box.

She should be happy. You're here in the apartment, snuggled up with her and about to watch The Babadook— despite your clear aversion towards the said movie, droning on about something she could barely care about— effectively blocking them, eyes fixated on your lips. She was torn between wanting to kiss you and being frustrated at you, saccharine bambi eyes trailing every little feature of your face, noting the small imperfections on your face that only made her heart clenched with adoration. Cliché as it sounds, they make you, you.

"Do you love me?" She whispers and your little muted rant stops, and you blinked at her animatedly like a deer caught in headlights. Was that good? Was that bad? What the hell is happening in your head?

"Please say you love me."