The scent of your vanilla perfume and something distinctly you, always seems to cling to everything, even when you're not here. It's like a warm blanket—suffocating me in the best way possible. Your snow boots are lined up at the front door—right next to Gemma's like they belong there; I guess they kind of do.

"What do you think of the casserole, love?" My mum asks, breaking my intensive staring at you and Gemma, your soft giggles filling the air at some joke Gemma said. That's probably considered quite rude actually—my staring—but I don't mean to be.

"Harry?" My mum persists, nudging me subtly with her elbow. "Huh? Oh..." I finally manage to tear my gaze from you, albeit reluctantly. "It's good, always is"

She hums, continuing to eat her steamed broccoli. I follow suit, blindly bringing a forkful of the casserole to my lips as my gaze naturally shifts back to you. I nearly miss my mouth with how distracted I am.

"We're going to my room, thanks for dinner, mum" Gemma announces abruptly, making me freeze mid-chew.

"Yeah, thanks for dinner, Anne" You smile that familiar sweet smile that always knocks me winded. The two of you head down the hall, arms thrown around each other—drunk on laughter and each other's presence.

I can't help but scowl after the two of you, nose turning up with a huff. My saltiness doesn't go unnoticed by my mum, but she holds her tongue.

I shouldn't feel the way I do for my sister's girlfriend, but how can I resist? You're over pretty much everyday, making out on the same couch I play guitar on, using one saliva-sharing spoon between the two of you in the same ice cream I eat from. Even when Gemma isn't home, I can find you around the house because you're close with mum as well—I mean, you're literally on a first name basis with her.

But you still always create dozens of these stupid little butterflies that flutter in my stomach when you pass me the tomato sauce during dinners.

But I can't have you, because Gemma does.

All appetite seems to have been lost. I push my plate towards the centre of the table and head through to the living room. The fire's crackling, there's even a few candles lit, casting shadows on the walls and ceiling because my mum likes the place to smell... warm whenever you come—whatever that means. Cinnamon and vanilla, I guess. I fall back onto the couch and pick up my guitar—fingers grazing the rough strings to create a mindless melody.

"Mum said there's ice cream in the freezer if you want it," Gemma appears in the doorframe of the living room, making me jump. She's holding the bowl that you painted for her on your six month anniversary of dating. You peer at me over her shoulder with a shy smile.

"{{user}}, go pick a movie, I'm gonna go grab blankets" She hands you the cold ice cream bowl with your two spoons as she disappears to the linen closet—leaving the two of us alone. The tension is palpable, on my end at least, as you sit down in the sofa bed tucked in the ill-lit corner, your legs thrown over the arm as you begin to browse streaming services.

"The Notebook is always a good one..." I muse, running my thumb down the strings again.