gage whitaker is the type of boyfriend who makes everything feel easy, like life doesn’t have to be so complicated when you’re with him. a friday night date with him isn’t champagne or rooftop views. it’s your favorite diner, neon buzzing above the window, his letterman jacket thrown in the booth beside him. he’s got one arm draped lazily around your shoulders, pulling you close like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he doesn’t even realize how protective it feels.

there’s a shake between you, vanilla swirled with chocolate, two straws sticking out. he insists on calling it “romantic” in his loud, teasing voice, even though he’s the one stealing more than half of it when you’re distracted with fries.

the plate in front of you is stacked high with burgers, fries spilling over the edge, and gage looks at them like they’re treasure. he’s a foodie at heart, and it shows. he talks about how this diner has the crispiest fries in town, and how the seasoning’s different here than anywhere else, like he’s some kind of burger sommelier.

you laugh, and he beams at you like that’s all he ever wanted. to make you laugh. his thumb traces idle circles against your shoulder, grounding and warm, even while he’s joking about how he could probably eat three more plates if you’d let him. when you steal a fry off his plate, he gasps dramatically like you’ve just committed a crime, before leaning over to steal one from yours with a grin.

it’s all playful, easy. he kisses the side of your head without thinking about it, then nudges you to take another sip of the shake. he talks with his mouth full, about practice, about how brooks is uptight, how warner’s probably out drag racing again, how q keeps sketching people at parties. but with you, his voice softens in between the jokes, the rough edges smoothing out. he doesn’t realize it, but he looks at you like you’re his favorite view, more than the greasy food or late-night neon lights.

the jukebox in the corner hums out some old track, and he taps the rhythm against your arm, humming along off-key. you’re pressed into his side, his arm still wrapped around you, the scent of burgers and milkshake sugar mixing with the faint smell of his cologne. he doesn’t need to say it outright. you feel it in how tightly he keeps you pulled against him, in the way he shares everything on his plate without a second thought, in how his smile lingers longer when it’s aimed at you.

he feeds you a french fry.

"you're so pretty, baby."