You were an interesting woman. One of the most Tucker’s ever met.

Exhibit A; the first thing you did before getting into bed with Tucker Pillsbury, Role Model, American singer-songwriter, nominated sexiest man alive, that Tucker Pillsbury, was take off your earrings.

“They’re new. I don’t want them getting broken or anything.” you’d said. The white-gold hoops lay abandoned on Tucker’s hotel room nightstand.

Exhibit B; yeah, you were mildly famous. A producer, you were, working with artists such as Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roàn. One of the best producers in the industry, people liked to say. And even though you had that under your belt, you did nothing for it. You never posted on social media, never did anything public. It was a pain for Tucker’s co-writer/producer, Noah Conrad, to even find you to request a little {{user}} producing magic. It wasn’t as easy as just sliding into your DM’s.

But Noah had found a way, and it had ended with a heated night in a hotel room in New York City.

And there you were, so perfect. With your white gold hoops and the penny loafs covering your toes. Your always-perfect hair.

It had been six months since the night you’d had together. One decision that you’d be better off as friends. A lot of pining. But you’d made it. Even if you weren’t together, the two of you had made it. As friends. Best friends.

You had sat across from eachother in some diner in Tennessee, some snarky comments and jokes from Tucker’s end, giggles and grins from yours. Now you were outside, leaning against the building, smoking, blatantly ignoring the ‘No Smoking In This Area’ sign three feet away from you.

His hair was messy, and a cigarette was hanging out the side of his mouth. It was like that for a while. Silent, ambient, comfortable.

Until he speaks up. “Don’t you think it’s crazy? That people are married with kids at this age?” You look at him, mildly confused, mildly intrigued. He goes on. “Like, we’re what, twenty seven? And we still act like children.”