Chapter Text
You knew he would come over. It was selfish to ask him to hook up, knowing you could barely function. Knowing you struggled to type the message and you might not be coherent enough to answer the door when he knocked. But you wanted him there anyway.
[1:33AM] Y/N: can you comeeeee to my apartment!!!! i havw something to tellll yoyyyy :)
He wasn't the kind of man who hesitated.
[1:38AM] John: Yes ma’am.
~
When he knocked, you couldn't get your body to move at first. You were still wearing the tight black dress you'd worn to the bar. Your TVs background noise was so soothing, it was lulling you to sleep. But you could hear his whisper from the other side of the door asking you to open up. He didn't want to wake the neighbors.
He laughed when he saw you stumble as you opened the door. He raised his eyebrows, surprised at your state of drunkenness. He expected tipsy, but not drunk. Not this drunk. “How drunk are you, Y/N?”
“Not drunk enough,” you said, leaning your body against the door, staring at him. He was in that hoodie you loved: oversized and gray. It smelled like his old-man cologne. And he hadn’t shaved. You reached your hand toward his jaw just to touch his stubble. You loved him like this. Comfortable, not too done up.
“When it wears off, I'm gonna tell you about this and you're going to be mortified,” he said, letting his head naturally fall deeper into your touch. You still hadn't let him inside yet. Your body didn't know how.
“Never. Unless you reject me. Then I will be.”
“Well, unfortunately, I only have sex with drunk women when I am also drunk.”
“That can be arranged,” you said. He planted a kiss on your cheek and let himself in, closing your door and guiding you deeper into the apartment by your arm.
“Y/N, I’m going to do my best to get your makeup off–you look stunning by the way–and get you into some comfortable pajamas. And then I’ll make myself some dinner and lay in bed with you. And tomorrow you'll wake up and I’ll remind you what a nutcase you are. Go lay down,” he said, pointing to your bedroom.
“John,” you said.
“What.” He was smiling as you walked away slowly, stumbling and sloppy. Your situation with each other, whatever you wanted to call it, was messy. But never dull.
“I got the job, John. A job. And my girlfriends. And you. I'm so happy.”
“Congratulations, pretty girl.” You grinned at the pet name.
“You know I invited you here for sex,” you said to change the subject.
“Oh really? Didn't cross my mind.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You didn't disappoint me. I’ve been trying to find ways to take care of you without invading your…you know, your space and your time.” He was already moving towards your bedroom, waiting for you to follow. You sat on the edge of the bed and started to feel dizzy, so you lay your entire body against the mattress. You stared up at the fan above the bed. So dusty and so fast. You closed your eyes hard to stop the imagination from making you dizzier.
“You can invade my space all you want, John.” You looked towards your bathroom where he rummaged through your things.
He sighed and shook his head, but never let go of that casual smile he always wore. “I’m being serious. I just wish I could take care of you when you’re sober.” You didn't have anything to say because he was right. But he also wouldn't get it: that insecurity of needing him too much.
Plus, there was always that fear of becoming a cliche. Younger woman falls in love with an older man and gets fooled. That fear was always around the corner even though John was proving to you that you were at the center of his life. It wasn't like he had a wife to think about. Just you in your apartment, a fifteen-minute drive from his place.
So you could only be this helpless when you were intoxicated. You could be flirty and romantic and complimentary when you were sober. Those things weren't hard. Sincerity, though, you needed liquid courage for.
~
John wasn't sure where anything was in your apartment. He went for the makeup bag first, looking for makeup wipes. Stuffed full and dirty, but no wipes.
The mirror cabinet wasn't much better. It didn't look like you'd opened it in ages. Dust. Mostly dust. He wanted to attempt to organize your things inside, but he wanted permission first. Just touching things felt like an invasion. He rummaged underneath the sink. Toilet paper and roach spray. A diva cup inside of a red solo. Overnight pads.
There were only two drawers: one, a junk drawer. Birthday cards from your mom and dad who he'd never met and maybe never would. Lighters. A few dollar bills. Cough drops and Q tips and a picture of the two of you, an absurdly large 4x4 you’d printed from when you first started going out. The lighting was too dim in the photo and his smile too wide. The second drawer in the bathroom, thankfully, was stuffed full of makeup wipes and tampons.
He stood at the bathroom door and stared at you. One year. It had been one year since you two met and he was still trying to see every side of you. Maybe there were too many to know. Maybe there were a few versions of you you'd blocked off. He wanted those ones too.
“John…,” you mumbled, wiping the sweat from your forehead. He figured it might be easier to get you dressed if you were out cold, but he loved the sound of your voice.
“Yes, baby?” Baby. He’d called you that so many times, it probably didn't feel special to you anymore. But it felt right when he said it.
“What if I told you…that I really, really, really like you. And I want you to stay here. Forever.” He could only barely make out what you'd said because of the mumbling. But he got the gist of it. He wanted to hear you say it again. Over and over.
“What was that?” He was playing coy.
“I love you and I-I want you forever.” You were whimpering now, uncomfortable in your dress and the slightest bit cognisant that you'd confessed something too real. Too intimate. Your eyes started to get teary. The alcohol numbed your embarrassment.
“Y/N, why are you crying?” You could feel the makeup wipe on your skin, but he was being too gentle. You'd have pimples in the morning from the foundation left on your skin. His body weight moved the mattress. You felt yourself floating.
“You're the sweetest man I’ve ever dated. Ever.”
“Yeah?” He whispered. It was a compliment but it just pissed him off. What evil creatures did you date before that made you set the bar this low? All he was doing was listening to you, wiping your face, trying to be a small part of your life.
“I’m not saying we’re dating, obviously. Unless that's what you want. I just-for lack of a better…,” you trailed on until he kissed you on the forehead.
“I want to have this conversation when you can remember it, Y/N.” He took a long strand of your hair and twirled it between his fingers. It seemed he'd given up on the makeup wipe. He balled the wipe in his other hand. “So that I can tell you how much I would love to be official. How much I love you. I want to be in your life. However you'll have me.”
One forehead kiss was enough to make you cry harder. Two made you a bit ravenous, though you didn't have the stamina or body control to ravish him. You touched his arm and he stopped playing with your hair.
“Can you kiss me?”
“If you say please,” he teased. “And if you promise you won't try to seduce me. Because I can't have sex with you tonight, not like this.” It wasn't that he didn't want it. You could find proof that he wanted it, if you went looking. But both of you had already proved to each other the sexual attraction was thriving. There was something else, something less primal that he'd wanted since he met you. There wasn't really a word for it.
“I promise.”
“You forgot to say please,” he joked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
~
He was still there. It was a surprise only because John was a morning person. He would usually be up already, making progress. But there he was, back against your headboard, glasses on, writing on pen and paper.
“Goodmorning,” you whispered groggy.
“You're awake. How are you feeling?”
“Delightful. Now come hold me,” you said with a smile. He didn't hesitate. Just dropped his writing on the floor and scootched down. You weren't sure what type of cuddle John would be into. Your head on his chest? Spooning? A straddle? But naturally, you two found each other face to face. He kissed your lips first, then your cheek. You watched his eyes as they searched your face.
He drew you into a bear hug. Wrapped his legs around your legs until the two of you were intertwined everywhere. You didn't feel suffocated like you usually did when people hugged you. You felt safe, like his whole body was protecting you from something.
He rested his head in the crook of your neck. You were wearing pajamas you barely recognized. A black cami sleep top and matching shorts. His finger met skin as he drew circles on your back, all along your spine. You could've fallen asleep if it hadn't been for his mumbles.
“Do you remember last night when…we were talking and you…,” he considered teasing you with you own words. I love you and I want you forever. But he wasn't sure you meant them. He brought his head from your neck and gave you a little room, loosening his legs and arms from around you.
“I told you that I loved you. And I want to confess it again. In case you don't remember.” You let him keep talking because when he rambled, he always revealed too much. And you always got to stop him with a kiss or a pinch or a light smack to the arm.
“So I’m confessing it twice within twenty four hours. I love you.” You wanted to be unreadable at least for a second longer. You remembered. Bits and pieces, but you remembered. Of course you did.
“You love me?” He nodded, looking everywhere but at you. He had morning breath and you still wanted to kiss him. “And when did you come to realize that?” You would take ownership of your drunken confessions later. What you wanted now was answers. To pick his brain about what loving you looked like.
“I…probably three or four months in,” he cleared his throat and took a quick look at your face. He should have met your eyes, but he was nervous. You were giving him nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“When you drew me an ugly portrait on a sticky note and I went home with it in my pocket and tried to find a suitable place for it to live. And I- I knew I was fucked. Once you start collecting poorly drawn souvenirs, bachelor life is officially over.”
“I love you too.” He paused. He still wasn't sure. He needed the reassurance that this wasn't a fluke.
“You mean it?”
“I meant it when I said it last night. And I mean it even more now.” You remembered, he thought. And you made him squirm. Waited to reveal it.
“You’re a bastard!” he laughed, rolling his eyes.
“And you love me. If we’re pointing out obvious things.”
“I do.” His hands found your spine again–proof that he was trying to learn your shape, your outline.