A/N: I want to thank you all for the incredible feedback I've been getting lately. You guys are amazing!
I will say this, because I feel it needs to be said. As much as I strive to make my fics as good as I can, I write for fun. Between my master's, work, home problems, writing is the one thing I go to when I need to relax. And as much as I'd love to improve and deliver a perfect thing, for now, I'm just not able to. So you can either accept an occasional error here and there (I am human above all), or you can simply read something else.
But before you criticize my English, I'd like to ask you if you're able to write a piece of art in a language that is not your native, and then we can speak more. Now as much as I appreciate the constructive criticism, at this moment, I'm just not interested in it, especially if you're questioning my choices. I know my writing can be better, but I just don't have the time or energy right now. So it's either this, or nothing. You decide.
And please, don't let this stop you from leaving positive messages! I do love reading them so much. Honestly, every kind word means the world!
I appreciate the understanding, I apologize for this insanely long A/N and without further ado, this is something very fluffy, very light because we all need it.
"You didn't start without me, did you?" He asks, when he spots her curled on the couch as soon as he comes in. He sets the keys down next to hers—a simple action he always enjoys—gets rid of his jacket, before walking forward to the kitchen area.
She gives him an evil smile and shrugs her shoulders. "I couldn't keep waiting. It is so good! You are not going to believe what happens, I mean Dustin gets killed by the thing and El and Mike go to the upside down alone and…"She talks excitedly to make it worse, and he tenses up.
The horrified look on his face is worth the guilt she's feeling right now, as she bursts into laughter from her comfortable position on the couch. He realizes he's just been pranked with what seems to be a bunch of fake spoilers, so he rolls his eyes at her, unloading the takeout on the counter.
"Relax, babe. God, Netflix and no chill, much?" She loves teasing him. "I would never start without you." The sentence is packed with a sexual innuendo that has him wanting to skip the Stranger Things marathon they've been planning for the night and take this straight into the bedroom. But something tells him they will end up there anyway, so he plates the food, humming in a low voice, and doesn't even realize at first that she is gazing at him lovingly from the couch, until she speaks again and he lifts his eyes. "Need any help?"
"All good," he assures her, unable to fight a warm smile spreading across his face when her sparkling eyes meet his and the dimples make a famous appearance. He loves her so much it hurts sometimes. He'd be doing something completely random, and she'd smile at him and it would knock him over with the force of a hurricane—just how insanely in love with her he is.
"Penny for your thoughts," she murmurs. She has leaned her head onto her crossed arms which are leaning on the top of the couch, while she looks at him.
"These are worth much more than a penny," he teases, bringing the plates over, and returning to the fridge for the two bottles of beer. Then they both settle on the couch, starting their tv marathon. It feels fun to do things like this once in a while. To take a breather from work and worries–both of which are abundantly present in their lives–and do something as mundane as spend the evening curled up in front of the big screen that she's finally allowed him to install.
For a couple of precious hours, they get lost in a world that is not their own, get invested in the characters and stories and their problems. And he wonders. How did he watch tv before, when her head wasn't tucked safely under his chin, resting on his torso? How did he enjoy a tv show before her sassy comments, or sighs, or other reactions? How did he know it was time for bed without her tired sounds and her falling asleep on top of him?
How did he live before her?
The short answer is he didn't. He never truly lived until she made him live. Until she showed up with her leather jacket and perfect shooting score, and took over his life. Part by part. First by being his partner at work, then by being his best friend, and finally by being the woman he loves.
He turns off the tv, making a mental note of where they left off, then softly scoops her up and carries her to bed. He lays her pillows around her, and she hums with content when he pulls the comforter over her, though as soon as he joins her in bed, she pushes the pillows away and finds her favourite pillow—him.
And he wouldn't have it any other way, as he waits for her to find a comfortable position, before he finds his, and lets her breathing slowly lull him to sleep.
When she crawls out of bed, he's been up for a while already. In fact, it's the smell of eggs and toast that brings her out of the bedroom, sniffing loudly.
"Morning," she murmurs. She looks oddly adorable with her pillow hair and sleep-laced voice.
"Morning, babe." He knows her priorities, so a mug of coffee goes into her hand first, before anything else. After she takes the first few sips, she leans up for a kiss, and he readily obliges.
"House-husband." Though she says it gratefully and with a grin.
"Only for you."
"As it should be. You can't be out there making breakfast for other women. I own you." He loves this moment. When the sleep slowly begins leaving her and she becomes more aware, and sassier too. And he loves that he knows all this, because he knows her better than anyone else.
"You know it."
The truth is, as strange as it sounds, he loves feeding her. He loves taking care of her. He loves making sure she doesn't leave home for work with nothing to eat, or with a single granola bar that is supposed to last her until lunch. It's all a part of loving her, and he loves her a lot.
After breakfast, she takes the dishes to the counter, shaking her head at his offer of help. "You cook, I do the dishes," she tells him, making him smile. He's enjoying this domestic Erin very much. And ever since they moved in together he has been seeing a lot of that side of her.
People have told him that it goes away—the so-called honeymoon phase—and then the reality sets in. Living together becomes boring and uneventful. But so far, he has loved every minute of it. Including the moments when they bickered about her mess in the bathroom, or when he accidentally bleached her lacy underwear and she screamed at him for half an hour. It just feels right, and he doesn't see himself anywhere else.
He glances at the clock. They don't have to be at work until late today, because they just closed a big case last night—one that dragged on for quite a while. He's glad they get to take a pause and rest a bit before diving into the next one.
"You know, we skipped something last night. We did the Netflix part, but no chill," she mentions casually, watching his squirm.
"It was a long day," he says with a smirk. "Maybe we can still do the chill part."
"I think we still have time for a shower," she implies. "I need a shower. I'm very dirty." She emphasises the word dirty, the sound of her giggles filling his ears when he takes off his shirt and practically carries her to the bathroom.
He doubts this could ever become boring.