Hello. I'm Anne, nice to meet you. Welcome to my space where I blog things I enjoy...or just anything in particular. Mostly my fandoms. Be warned. - helllinredheels
He feels like he’s in a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel.
Or worse, the film adaptation.
It’s pouring, and he’s shivering, and it’s dark, and he’s sitting on her stoop like an idiot, wilted flowers clutched in his blueing fingers. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, only that his teeth are chattering and he’s soaked through to his very cells; water squishes around in his boots and clings to his hair, dripping down the nape of his neck and under the collar of his suit jacket but he can’t leave. Not yet. Not until he knows.
It was a rubbish idea to begin with, he knows that, but he thought she’d be home. Thought it would go like a romance, or even a romcom—he’d show up on her porch and declare his love and she’d haul him inside by his shirt and the rest of the world could fade to black while he finally, finally got to touch her the way he’s always wanted.
But she hadn’t been home. She hasn’t been home for hours, and he’s starting to think it’s less like Nicholas Sparks and more like a parody, a SNL tribute or a mockumentary and fuck, he’s so cold he can’t even feel it. Everything is numb and his back is starting to ache, and he’d text her to see if she’s even in town at all if he could move his fingers but he can’t, so he waits.