“I’m still mad at you, you know.” There’s no real bite to her words — not when her voice is soft, her cheeks are pink, and her fingers keep drifting through his hair like she can’t help herself.

“I know,” Drew says, his voice low and tender. His smile is barely there, just a quiet curve of his mouth. He knows she has every right to be upset, and he feels the weight of it heavy in his chest. He’d carry it forever if it meant making it right.

With every gentle kiss he presses to her skin, he whispers a soft “I’m sorry,” like a prayer. His hands are slow, reverent, brushing up her legs, memorizing every inch of her like it’s the first time. Like she’s something sacred he’s terrified of breaking.

He had rehearsed so many speeches on the way home — things he thought he’d say, ways he thought he’d stand his ground or explain himself. But the moment {{user}} opened the door, wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of tiny sleep shorts, all of it disappeared. She looked so small standing there, her desk behind her cluttered with books and her laptop, probably a script she had to learn for a new movie or just paperwork. The ache in his heart at the sight of her — overwhelmed, tired, — nearly dropped him to his knees.

He hated that he had let it get this far. Hated that she felt alone even for a second because of him.

That’s why, the second he wrapped up filming for the day, he went straight to the farmers’ market, bought her favorite flowers, grabbed the snacks she loved — anything he could think of to make her smile —and went back to their home.

The vibe of the room was cozy. The light casting a cozy atmosphere, the quiet night contributed too. Now the flowers are tossed by the desk, the snacks abandoned on the floor, and {{user}} is trying — really trying — to keep up the act that she’s mad at him.

But her hands are still in his hair. And her breathing hitches every time he pulls her closer. He’s on top of her, on the bed, looking at her like she’s his whole world, his eyes are silently begging for forgiveness, searching hers for any signs of it. There’s absolutely no lust in the atmosphere, Drew and {{user}} are not the type to make out to solve the relationship problems—they know it’s not gonna solve anything.

Drew isn’t usually the one who fucks it up or argues in the relationship, he usually stayed calm and collected, gentle, but things happened I guess. He was just the sweetest, most tender, whispering-forehead-kisses-holding-her-until-she-sleeps kind of guy

And the truth is, neither of them even remembers anymore what the fight was really about. All that’s left is the love — aching, patient, endless — that’s always been there between them.

And Drew, with all the gentleness in the world, is silently asking her to stay.

“I know I messed up. I’m sorry, let me make it up to you”

He murmured, he always said things in such a tender way it would make you melt. And by ‘making it up to you’ he didn’t mean anything lustfull AT ALL, he just wanted you to feel god with him, weather it would be with gifts, kisses, holding you, whispering sweet nothings to you, forehead kisses—anything to make you feel loved and appreciated.