thoughtwriter

[thoughtwriter]

about you - a. hill

summary -> arthur hill sings a new song at one of his concerts and it’s clear who it’s about | reader x arthur hill

wc -> 1.7k

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

you don’t even realize how tightly you’re holding your drink until liv nudges your arm, giggling as she leans in.

“he’s gonna kill it,” she says over the crowd noise. “you’re glowing like you’re the one about to perform.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “shut up. i’m just proud, that’s all.”

proud is an understatement. you’ve watched arthur go from playing covers in dusty open mics to selling out small venues like tonight’s show. you’ve been to nearly every one, from grimy basements to tiny backyard stages with broken amps. this one feels different. bigger. louder. real.

and yet, standing here among a few dozen friends and fans, some familiar faces, some strangers, your stomach is fluttering like you’re waiting for something else.

the lights dim.

you see him before anyone else — tall, calm, familiar. arthur. his guitar slung low across his chest, signature flannel sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. he steps into the light like he doesn’t even notice it.

the crowd roars. you cheer loudest. he looks up. finding you just like he always does.

and smiles. your heart trips over itself.

“hey,” arthur says into the mic, voice low and warm. “thanks for coming out tonight. means everything to me.”

he plays the first few songs you know by heart — august rain, static, lately. you sing every word. he glances at you during every chorus, but you try not to read too much into it. arthur’s always been that way with you. quiet smiles, inside jokes, late-night playlists. intimate in a way that’s never crossed a line. and maybe you’ve loved him a little longer than you care to admit, but being his best friend has always been enough.

or you thought it was.

halfway through the set, arthur steps back from the mic. the stage lights shift to a softer amber. he adjusts the strap on his guitar and clears his throat.

“this next one’s… uh, new,” he says, eyes scanning the crowd. “haven’t played it before. it’s not on the album. i wasn’t sure i ever would, honestly.”

you glance at your friends — liv, issac, george — all of them curious now, leaning in. arthur’s gaze lands on you again. your breath catches.

“it’s… about someone,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “and… they don’t know.”

a murmur goes through the crowd, the kind that happens when something suddenly feels real. you freeze. you don’t even blink.

then he plays the first chord.

it’s slow. gentle. different than his usual sound. barely a beat behind it, he starts to sing. you forget to breathe.

your friends go still. liv’s eyes flick toward you, then arthur. you don’t look at her. you can’t.

the crowd is dead quiet. arthur doesn’t look at the strings. doesn’t look at the crowd. he’s looking straight at you.

it hits like a wave. like a secret cracking open in front of everyone. your name isn’t in the lyrics, but it might as well be.

liv grips your arm. bach mutters, “holy shit,” under his breath. you don’t answer. you can’t even hear over the roar in your ears.

he keeps playing.

verse after verse, every memory tucked into rhyme. that time you stayed up until 3 a.m. making playlists. that road trip to nowhere. the time you almost kissed and didn’t, and both pretended not to notice.

he remembered it all. he turned it into this. by the time he hits the final chorus, his voice has gone softer. vulnerable.

the final chord rings out. no one claps. they’re too stunned.

and then, slowly, like people waking up from a dream, the crowd starts to cheer. not loud. not wild. just warm and knowing.

you don’t move. arthur takes off his guitar. says a quiet “thank you” into the mic. but his eyes haven’t left you. not once.

after the show. you’re the last one out the door.

he finds you by the loading ramp behind the venue, the city quiet in the way it only is after something huge. the air between you hums with everything unspoken.

he doesn’t say anything at first. you do.

“that song,” you say, voice thin.

“yeah.” arthur’s voice is soft. nervous. your heart pounds. “it’s about me.”

he nods once. “i thought maybe you wouldn’t—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“you could’ve told me.”

“i didn’t know how. i didn’t want to… lose you.” you look at him. really look. he’s not hiding anymore. neither are you.

“i thought i was imagining it,” you say, stepping closer. “all this time.”

“you weren’t.”

you’re so close now, you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“you sang it in front of everyone.”

“i needed you to know. and i figured if i was gonna blow it… i might as well do it with some style.”

you laugh, almost crying. “god, you’re an idiot.”

he shrugs. “yeah, but i’m your idiot. if you want me to be.”

the silence stretches. he doesn’t push. just waits.

you take a breath. and then—you step into him, arms around his neck, forehead resting against his. he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“you already were,” you whisper. “you just didn’t know.” he smiles, that crooked smile that’s always undone you.

and then, finally, finally— he kisses you. it’s soft and sure, like the first note of a favorite song. one you already know by heart. one that’s only just begun.

first arthur hill fic okay we see me

[thoughtwriter]

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𐙚 about you (arthur hill sings a new song at one of his concerts and it’s clear who it’s about)

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[thoughtwriter]

pov - next week i’m posting EVERY day in celebration of hitting 100 followers

[thoughtwriter]

my man hotch 🙏

— WORK WIFE, AARON HOTCHNER.

this is my favorite hotch fic i’ve ever written! husband hotch i love u

“You’re married?” Emily blurts out in disbelief, standing beside your desk in the bullpen. Her brows shoot up as she takes a step closer, eyes locked on your left hand.

She gently grabs it, tilting it toward the light to get a better look at the ring on your finger. Her fingers hover like she’s afraid to touch it. The ring, gorgeous yet very obviously expensive, shines under the office lights.

“How have I never noticed this before?” she asks, laughter spilling into her voice. She glances at your face and back to the ring, thoroughly entertained by her own obliviousness.

You give a small shrug from your chair, leaning back slightly as you glance at the ring yourself. “It’s not really an oversized ring, I guess. Subtle enough to not be flashy— unless you’re actively staring at my hands.”

Emily snorts at that and settles down on the edge of your desk, her curiosity now fully piqued. Her eyes drift from your hand to the desk surface, scanning it for any signs of personal life.

Her smile falters slightly as she takes in the minimalistic setup— neatly stacked files, a couple of pens, your badge, but no photos. No hints of the mysterious spouse she’s only now just discovered.

“No picture of your husband anywhere?” she asks, clearly surprised.

You let out a soft laugh, fingers still tapping away at your keyboard. “Nope. I see him every single day. I don’t exactly need a reminder of what he looks like while I’m working.”

Emily cocks her head, pretending to be shocked, though the sparkle in her eyes gives her away. “Wow. Cold. At least tell me you have a photo of him on your phone. I want to see what this mystery man looks like.” She shifts forward slightly, elbows on her knees like a kid in gossip mode, the grin on her face growing.

Before you can respond, her eyes flick over your shoulder, drawn by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She watches as Hotch makes his way down from the upper level, coffee in hand, moving with his usual composed stride. He crosses the bullpen and stops at your desk, setting a to-go cup next to your keyboard.

“Did you know she’s married?” Emily grins up at him, her tone light and teasing.

Hotch doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he says plainly. “I married her a couple of years ago.”

He glances down at you, his expression unreadable to anyone but you, and casually adds, “They were out of hazelnut creamer, so I got you caramel.”

Emily blinks and there’s a pause— one of those silences where time seems to stutter. Her eyes dart between you and Hotch, her brain clearly trying to process what she just heard. Then she laughs, shaking her head.

“Okay, very funny,” she scoffs. “Good one, Hotch.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, his brow slightly furrowed as he lifts his left hand and shows her the plain gold wedding band resting comfortably on his finger.

Emily’s laughter dies immediately. “Wait. What?”

“There’s no way in hell she would marry you,” she exclaims, half-laughing again, though the disbelief is starting to sound a little forced.

Hotch glances down at you with a look that’s equal parts amused and wounded, eyebrows raised as if to say Did she really just say that? You shake your head, already laughing as you push your chair back and rise to your feet.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you murmur affectionately, stepping toward him and looping your arms around his neck. You pepper kisses across his cheeks, offering exaggerated sympathy. “That was so mean!”

Hotch stands stiffly for a second, sighing as you shower him in affection. But the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement, and his hand comes to rest gently on your lower back, anchoring you to him even as he rolls his eyes.

Emily just stares, jaw hanging open slightly, her expression slowly morphing from incredulity to full on horror as the reality sets in. “Oh my God,” she breathes, shooting to her feet. “I am so sorry, Hotch. I didn’t know— I thought you were kidding! You’re not the kind of person who jokes like that!”

Hotch glances at her, unimpressed but not angry. He doesn’t bother responding— he’s far more preoccupied with your continued affection as you nuzzle his cheek again, giggling softly.

“Poor baby,” you coo, hands coming up to gently squish his face between your palms as you press one last kiss to his lips. “Don’t listen to her. I’m very happy to be married to you.”

Hotch hums in quiet agreement, still avoiding Emily’s wide-eyed stare as she blurts out a stream of apologies, her hands flying in every direction like she’s trying to physically take the words back.

He finally looks from her to you, amusement flickering in his eyes. Then, with a mischievous smirk that’s rare but undeniably real, he leans down and gives your backside a light, playful swat before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Put a picture of me on your desk by tomorrow,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear. “Please?”

You smile up at him, eyes warm and full of fondness as you nod. “Promise,” you say softly, reaching up to kiss him once more— quick and sweet— before sitting back down at your desk, already mentally selecting which photo to frame.

[thoughtwriter]

tell me why someone just sent literal pictures or like gore and organs and shit to my acc. some alt acc that was replying to a lot of criminal mind related posts, i’ve reported but if anyone else could it would be appreciated

the @/ alt900001872

[thoughtwriter]

puppy love - a. tv

summary -> you’re a big animal lover and fall in love with everyone’s pets the second you meet them so arthur surprises you

wc -> 2k

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you never stood a chance when it came to dogs. one look at a wagging tail, a wet nose, or those soul-piercing puppy eyes and your heart was theirs. it wasn’t just that you liked animals —no, you felt something every time you met one. dogs especially. you connected with them instantly, like you’d known them in a past life and they were just waiting for you to come back.

it had become a running joke amongst your friends —your inability to resist any dog you met. arthur teased you constantly about it. and now, hanging out more frequently with the sidemen and their circle because of your growing presence on youtube, it was almost too easy to fall in love.

your first true test came at simon’s.

“okay, but i’m warning you now,” simon said, opening the door to his house with a raised eyebrow, “if you make that squealing noise again when you see her, i’mm revoking your dog privileges.”

you grinned, bouncing on your toes. “no promises.”

he stepped aside dramatically like he was revealing royalty.

and there she was. nala.

the golden retriever you’d stalked for months on Instagram, seen in countless vlogs, and now… now she was walking toward you in real life with that serene confidence only retrievers seem to have. like she knew she was the star of every room she walked into.

you didn’t even finish greeting simon properly. you dropped to your knees like your soul had left your body.

“NALA,” you gasped, arms already outstretched.

she blinked at you, tail giving a curious wag —then broke into a full run, barreling into you like you were long-lost best friends.

“she’s softer than i imagined,” you mumbled, face buried in her golden fur.

“she’s also going to leave you in five minutes for a piece of ham,” simon quipped.

“she’s perfect,” you said, ignoring him.

nala licked your cheek, and you genuinely thought you might cry. she was a walking serotonin boost, and you refused to believe that this was just a casual meeting. this was love. soulmate-level.

talia walked in just as you tried to take a selfie with nala’s head on your shoulder. she rolled her eyes with a smile. “another victim, i see.”

“don’t act like you weren’t the same,” simon said, nudging her.

“she’s magic,” you murmured. “i would die for her.”

simon groaned. “you met her two minutes ago.”

“doesn’t matter.”

by the time you left that night, nala had successfully claimed 47 new photos in your camera roll and at least three mentions in your Instagram story. you weren’t ashamed.

the next week, you were at tobi’s.

“she’s a bit shy,” he warned as you walked into his cozy living room. “takes a while to warm up.”

you immediately crouched down and kept your hands in your lap.

“hi, luna,” you said gently. “it’s okay. take your time.”

the black lab mix peeked out from behind the sofa, cautious eyes watching you like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

“she’s a rescue,” tobi added. “didn’t have the easiest start.”

you nodded softly, not taking your eyes off her, “she’s beautiful.”

a few moments passed —then luna padded forward, ears back but nose twitching with curiosity.

when she finally reached you and nudged your hand, you felt that same heart-thudding connection again. you let her sniff, then slowly scratched behind her ears. she leaned into it like a sleepy cat.

“she trusts you,” tobi said quietly. “that’s rare.”

you looked up at him with a watery smile. “she’s safe now. she knows.”

after that, it was game over. you visited luna at least three more times in the span of two weeks. you memorized where she liked to be scratched, which squeaky toy was her favorite, and how she did a little full-body shake after every nap.

by the time you were posting a tiktok dedicated to her, arthur texted:

do i need to start barking to get your attention or…?

ypu replied with a photo of luna snuggled against your lap and captioned it:

u couldn’t compete

his response came instantly:

rude. also accurate.

still, he never seemed bothered. not really. he always seemed… amused. a little quiet when you talked too long about someone else’s dog, sure. but his eyes always softened when he saw you like that —all light and affection and no filter.

then one thursday night, while you were half-asleep on facetime with him, he asked, “you free Saturday?”

you blinked. “uh, yeah, i think so. why?”

“got something planned. just be here at 3.”

you sat up a little. “why? what are we doing?”

he smirked. “you’ll see. don’t ask questions.”

you raised a suspicious brow. “if this is an elaborate intervention for how obsessed i am with dogs—”

“you’ll see,” he repeated, grinning before ending the call.

saturday rolled around. you stood outside his flat, suspicious and excited, wondering if maybe he’d borrowed a dog for the afternoon just to mess with you. or worse —adopted a raccoon. arthur would do something chaotic like that.

but nothing prepared you for what was behind that door.

arthur answered with the most casual expression ever, despite the fact that he was obviously dying to spill something.

“hey,” he said smoothly.

“hi,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. “you’re being weird.”

“i’m always weird,” he said, stepping aside.

you walked in —and froze.

you heard it first. a tiny, excited whimper. then a shuffle. then the sound of claws gently tapping against hardwood.

you turned toward the sound —and your heart dropped into your stomach.

in the center of the room was a small playpen. inside it sat a crate, some toys, a tiny food bowl… and the smallest puppy you had ever seen in your life.

golden-brown fur. big floppy ears. a speckled nose. and the moment she saw you, her tail wagged so hard her whole body wobbled.

“Arthur,” you whispered, stunned.

he tried —and failed —to keep a straight face. “so, you know how you keep falling in love with everyone else’s dog?”

you turned to him in disbelief, heart pounding. “you didn’t.”

“i did,” he said, stepping closer. “she’s yours.”

your hands flew to your mouth.

“she’s mine?”

“she needed a home,” he said, voice gentler now. “and you… you’ve got the biggest heart i know. i figured, if anyone could love her the way she deserves—”

you didn’t hear the rest. the puppy barked, a tiny, excited squeak, and you rushed forward to open the gate.

she launched herself at you, clumsy and wiggling and full of joy. you scooped her up, your eyes already full of tears.

“she’s so little,” you whispered, pressing your face against her.

“she’s a rescue, got a bit of retriever, a bit of shepherd —maybe some collie too. bit of everything. she’s smart. and loud. like someone i know.”

you laughed through your tears. “i can’t believe you did this.”

arthur rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “i just wanted you to have something that makes you happy. every time you see a dog, you light up. i thought… maybe this time, it could be yours.”

the puppy licked your cheek, tail wagging furiously as she squirmed in your arms.

you looked up at arthur, heart thudding. “god, i love you.”

the words slipped out before you could even think.

his eyes widened —and then softened.

“i love you too,” he said, stepping closer. “have for a while, actually.”

you stood there, puppy in your arms, love of your life in front of you, and for once, you didn’t have anything sarcastic to say. you were full. complete.

“what’s her name?” arthur asked softly.

you looked down at the puppy. her eyes blinked up at you, full of trust. like she already knew who she belonged to.

“cleo,” you said. “she looks like a cleo.”

arthur grinned. “cleo it is.”

you sat on the floor together, cleo snuggled in your lap, her tiny snores filling the room like the final note in a perfect song.

and somewhere between the crinkle of her toy, the warmth of arthur’s hand in yours, and the feeling of unconditional love wrapped in fur, you realized: this wasn’t just a surprise.

it was the beginning of your forever.

[thoughtwriter]

multitudes [part 4] - a. tv

summary -> your first pub golf and you meet the one and only arthur tv who is infatuated from the moment he lays eyes on you

PART 1, 2, 3, 4

wc -> 1.1k

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

when the bach and arthur podcast asked you to come on as a guest, your gut reaction was panic.

not because you didn’t love them—you did. their brand of chaotic sibling-energy banter and oddly thoughtful life advice had become part of your weekly routine. but the idea of being on their turf, with arthur, talking about arthur? that was another level.

“they’re gonna grill me,” you groaned, flopping backwards onto arthur’s sofa like a shakespearean tragic hero.

arthur laughed from the kitchen, where he was pouring you both coffees. “they’re not gonna grill you. Tthey love you. they told me they were genuinely shocked i managed to ‘pull someone with a functioning brain.’”

you peeked over the couch. “comforting.”

“look,” he said, walking over and handing you a mug, “we don’t have to do couple content unless you want to. but honestly? i think it could be really fun. low-stakes. they’re just gonna ask you weird hypotheticals and try to embarrass me.”

you smirked into your mug. “now that sounds worth it.”

the studio was smaller than it looked on camera. cozy. comically mismatched chairs. a lava lamp in the corner that neither bach nor arthur could explain. you settled between them, headphones over your ears, mic in front of you, trying not to look too much like someone entering an emotional minefield.

“welcome back to the bach and arthur podcast!” bach boomed into the mic. “today we’re joined by someone who has done the impossible—become the internet’s favourite source of flamingo facts and the person keeping arthur humble.”

arthur grinned. “let’s be honest, they’re the real main character now.”

you laughed. “please. the only reason i’m here is because you two needed someone to explain what a taxonomical family is.”

“see?” bach said, looking directly at the camera. “smart. you’re a fraud, arthur.”

“comfirmed,” you added, deadpan.

it began light—how you met, favorite pub golf memory, your disastrous duet of “valerie.” arthur told the story of the flamingo fact like it was a myth he would one day pass to his grandchildren.

then it veered into chaos.

“okay,” bach said, scrolling through fan-submitted questions. “this one’s great. if you and arthur were in an apocalypse, who’s more likely to survive, and who accidentally dies because they try to save a useless item like a novelty mug?”

“easy,” you said. “i survive. arthur dies saving the flamingo mug i got him as a joke.”

arthur raised a hand in mock offense. “it’s sentimental!”

“it’s also ceramic, and you’d be running from zombies.”

“so you adimit you’d leave me behind?”

you turned to him, completely straight-faced. “only if it was a slow zombie.”

bach was wheezing.

but somewhere between zombie jokes and overanalyzing your star signs, the conversation shifted. as it often did with these two.

“alright,” bach said, suddenly more serious. “this one’s real. what’s been the hardest part about going public with your relationship?”

arthur glanced at you. just a flick of the eyes. a check-in.

you took a breath.

“i think…” you started slowly, “…weirdly, it’s not the hate. or even the pressure. it’s figuring out which parts we want to keep to ourselves.”

arthur nodded. “yeah. like, i love posting stupid clips and letting people in. but some of my favorite moments—like when you fell asleep on my shoulder in that cab ride home from filming, or when we danced in the kitchen for no reason—those moments don’t belong to the internet.”

“that’s the line,” you agreed. “knowing what’s for them and what’s just… ours.”

bach nodded, surprisingly quiet.

then he leaned into the mic. “okay, but just to clarify, is the ‘dancing in the kitchen’ moment on film somewhere? for research?”

you both laughed.

after the recording wrapped, you all stayed in the studio for another hour. no mics. no pressure. just easy conversation and a half-dozen inside jokes that would probably be forgotten by morning.

but as you walked back to arthur’s car, hand linked in his, he looked over at you with a softness you recognized by now. one that always meant something real was coming.

“you were brilliant in there.”

you shrugged. “felt like i talked too much.”

“you didn’t. you were funny and smart and you. that’s what people love.”

you looked at him, really looked.

“is that what you love?”

he didn’t hesitate, “it’s exactly what i love.”

the episode dropped three days later. it broke their view record in twelve hours.

fans posted their favorite quotes, made meme compilations, even demanded a spin-off podcast called flamingos and feelings.

your favorite comment was simple - this isn’t just a relationship. this is a partnership. and i’m so here for it.

you showed it to arthur while lying on the floor of his flat, sharing crisps and planning nothing.

he read it, smiled, and leaned over.

“we should get matching novelty mugs. just in case the apocalypse does happen.”

you grinned, “fine. but you’re still not allowed to die for one.”

100 follower milestone eek! thank you, i love each and every one of you ིྀ

thanks for the support on this mini-series, i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did :)

🏷️ @wherethezoes-at

[thoughtwriter]

Off Script

Summary: While filming a chaotic Sidemen YouTube video, WillNE invites Y/N—his long-time best friend and secret crush—to join the fun. But things quickly spiral when a stunt goes wrong and Y/N ends up hurt. In the panic and rush of the moment, Will's carefully hidden feelings come bubbling to the surface, along with a whole lot of regret.

“Oi, Will, your mate better be able to keep up,” Harry (W2S) yelled from across the field, tossing a football in the air with one hand while grinning like the chaos demon he was.

“She’s not just ‘my mate,’ she’s a menace,” WillNE shot back, adjusting the camera on his tripod before glancing toward you with a smirk. “Aren’t you, Y/N?”

You rolled your eyes but grinned. “Only when I’m provoked.”

“Good,” Ethan (Behzinga) clapped his hands. “We love chaos here. Welcome to the Sidemen circus.”

You were filming one of those ridiculous challenge videos—“Sidemen vs. YouTubers: Ultimate Obstacle Course.” Inflatable slides, mud pits, water balloon gauntlets… it looked like someone had thrown a toddler’s birthday party for grown men and given them too much Red Bull.

Will had invited you as his teammate. He’d been weirdly insistent about it, even though he usually avoided mixing filming with personal life. You’d known each other since uni, and while you’d done a few TikToks together, you’d never officially been in a Sidemen video.

Today, that changed.

The cameras were rolling. JJ shouted “Action,” and suddenly everyone was sprinting toward the inflatable wall.

You laughed as you dodged Tobi, shimmied up the wall, and slid down the other side into a pit of foam bricks. Will landed beside you with a theatrical “oof,” and you both scrambled forward like kids in a playground.

“See?” he said, breathless. “You’re killing it.”

“Don’t jinx me,” you warned.

Unfortunately, he did.

Because the next section was a wooden balance beam over a pool of shallow water. Slippery. Narrow. And positioned just perfectly for disaster.

You were halfway across when it happened.

Your foot slid. The world tilted.

There was a sickening crack as your ankle twisted under you, and you crumpled onto the beam with a choked-out yell.

“Y/N!” Will’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Shit, shit, shit, c’mere,” he cursed as he sprinted toward you, camera crew scattering out of his way.

The other Sidemen froze. Laughter stopped.

Will dropped to his knees beside the beam, his face pale as he looked you over. “Are you—what happened? Is it your leg?”

You hissed through clenched teeth, clutching your ankle. “Slipped. I think—I think I twisted it. Might be broken.”

“Fuck.” His hands hovered, shaking slightly. “Okay, don’t move. Stay still. You’re alright. I got you.”

He glanced back. “Medic! We need a medic, now!”

You groaned, trying to sit up, but Will gently pressed a hand to your shoulder. “Stop. Stay still. You’re not proving anything right now, alright? Let them help you.”

Your eyes met his. “Will…”

He didn’t let go of your hand.

The medic arrived a minute later, crouching beside you with calm efficiency. Will stayed close the entire time, one hand gripping yours, the other brushing hair out of your face.

The Sidemen lingered nearby, faces drawn with concern.

JJ muttered, “Didn’t think the foam gauntlet would be the safest bit.”

“Not funny,” Will snapped, uncharacteristically harsh.

You winced as the medic examined your ankle. “Can you move it?”

You tried, yelped. “Nope.”

“She’s done,” the medic said. “Needs ice, compression, and probably an x-ray. We’ll take her to the van.”

Will stood up immediately. “I’m going with her.”

“No, no, finish the video—” you tried.

“Not a chance,” he cut you off. “Like I’m leaving you right now.”

You didn’t argue. Not when he sounded like that.

The ride to the clinic was quiet. Will sat beside you, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched. You could feel the waves of guilt rolling off him.

“Will…”

“I shouldn’t’ve brought you.”

“Don’t say that.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. “You got hurt. Bad. On a stupid video. And I let it happen.”

You reached for his hand. “It’s not your fault. I wanted to be there.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who dragged you into the madness. I was the one who—” he stopped, swallowing.

“You were the one who what?”

His fingers tightened around yours.

“I was the one who wanted to spend the day with you. Who got excited when JJ said to bring a partner because I thought, finally, an excuse to be around you without hiding how I feel.”

Your breath hitched. “How you feel?”

Will finally looked at you, and all the playfulness from earlier was gone. He looked vulnerable. Scared.

“I like you, Y/N. I’ve liked you for a long time. And today, when you fell—when I thought you were seriously hurt—I panicked. Because I couldn’t imagine…” He shook his head. “It just made everything painfully clear.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t need to wait until I was broken to say that.”

He cracked a soft laugh. “Guess I needed a wake-up call. Not that I wanted this one.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “I like you too, idiot.”

Will blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“So… you’re telling me, all this time, we could’ve skipped the mutual pining and just made out behind a foam pit?”

You snorted. “Basically.”

He smiled for real then, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“I’m not,” you said, grinning through the pain. “I mean, it hurts hurts, but… this? This was worth it.”

Later, as the Sidemen came to visit you—armed with flowers, snacks, and about fifty different jokes—you were perched on a couch with your leg elevated, Will sitting beside you like a loyal golden retriever.

Harry walked in and immediately said, “Oi, we all owe Will money. We had a bet running on how long it’d take for him to confess.”

JJ added, “I said he’d wait until 2030.”

Tobi grinned. “Guess it just took a dramatic injury for some emotional honesty.”

Will rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of your hand.

Ethan raised a brow. “So… when’s the couple’s collab dropping?”

You and Will exchanged a look, smiling.

“Soon,” he said. “As long as we don’t involve balance beams.”

Word Count: 3456

main masterlist

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[thoughtwriter]

in his favourite sundress 𐙚

─── thoughtwriter | stevie | she / her ⋆˚₊ reid’s angel ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ arthur’s love ᥫ᭡ written by taylor jenkins reid, directed by sofia coppola . ݁ ₊ ⊹ ₊ ˚⊹♡ local love lover & romance reader 𐚁⊹₊ ⋆

my tumblr links 𐙚

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ᯓ✿ requests

ᯓ✿ upcoming releases

feel free to spam my requests to talk 𐙚

ᯓ✿ i write for uk youtubers, cod, criminal minds

[thoughtwriter]

blankets - s. reid

summary -> your first time staying over at boyfriend spencer’s apartment | reader x spencer

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> established relationship, spencer is a cutie patootie

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

spencer’s apartment smells like old books and bergamot tea. not in a strong way - more like a feeling than a scent, the kind that clings to the air and settles gently into your clothes.

you’ve been here before, just not for very long. usually just to drop him off, steal a kiss at the doorway, exchange a quiet laugh in the hallway. but tonight feels different.

the door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sound of rain still falling outside.

your hair is damp, and your coat clings to your arms, the cold clinging harder. spencer is already shrugging off his own jacket, his fingers moving in quick, practiced motions.

and when he sees you struggling with yours, he’s there - reaching out with a soft, “here, let me.”

his hands are warm. he peels the coat from your shoulders like it’s made of something delicate, folding it over a hook near the door before offering you a towel from a small basket tucked by the shoe rack.

of course he keeps towels there. of course he’s thought about things like this.

you rub at your hair awkwardly. “your place is warmer than I remember.”

“that’s because i turned the heat up before we left dinner,” he says, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.

“it’s a psychological trick. if your body’s even a few degrees warmer when you come in from the rain, it helps you relax.”

you raise an eyebrow. “is that a fact or a spencer fact?” he grins, “same thing.”

it’s hard not to smile back.

he moves toward the kitchen, asking if you want tea, and you follow him without thinking.

the apartment isn’t big, but it’s filled with the kind of things that make it feel lived-in. books are stacked on almost every surface - some alphabetized, others in chaotic, tottering towers.

the fridge is covered in magnets from places you’re not sure he’s even visited, and a calendar hangs crookedly on the side, open to a month behind.

a small cactus sits in the window next to a battered chess set frozen mid-game.

spencer talks while the kettle heats up, his voice low and comfortable, occasionally punctuated with facts about rain patterns and how smells are stronger in wet weather because moisture weighs scent molecules down.

you listen, letting his voice settle over you like the quilt on his couch - old and familiar and impossibly comforting.

he hands you a steaming mug a few minutes later, and your fingers brush. Something tightens in your chest, a fluttery little thread you pretend not to notice.

“want to sit?” he asks, motioning toward the couch.

you nod, curling up into the corner, careful not to knock over a leaning tower of medical journals.

spencer sits beside you, close but not too close, his socked feet tucking under him as he sips his tea. the rain taps gently on the windows like it’s keeping rhythm with the quiet.

it should feel weird, being here like this, in the soft in-between space of not-quite-home and more-than-just-visiting. but it doesn’t. it feels… safe. like breathing room.

“i’ve never actually seen you relax,” you tease after a lull in conversation.

spencer lifts an eyebrow. “i relax all the time.”

you give him a look.

“okay, maybe not all the time,” he concedes, smiling around the rim of his mug. “but i try. it’s just that my version of relaxing includes footnotes.”

you laugh, and something inside you unwinds.

maybe it’s the warmth from the tea, or the way his laugh joins yours like a perfectly timed harmony.

maybe it’s just the quiet understanding that grows in the silence after, like moss spreading between cobblestones.

as the rain intensifies, wind brushing against the glass, spencer stands and disappears into the hallway. you hear the soft creak of a door opening, then a rustle. he returns with a bundle in his arms: a massive, impossibly fluffy blanket that looks like it was made for burrowing into.

he throws it over the both of you without asking. “this,” he says, settling back beside you, “is the best blanket i own.”

you blink down at it. “did you knit this?”

“actually, my mom did. years ago. she sent it to me when i moved here and told me it was like a hug that never ends.” he pauses, eyes flicking over to yours. “she was right.”

your heart softens instantly. “that’s really sweet.”

he shrugs, looking a little shy now. “i only use it on important occasions.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and tonight counts?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he shifts a little closer, his arm brushing yours under the weight of the blanket. his voice is quieter when he says, “it does to me.”

your breath catches in your throat.

outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance. the apartment glows with warm lamplight, soft and golden, and you feel the slow press of sleep start to nudge at the edges of your mind. spencer notices.

“you’re tired,” he murmurs, like a fact he just read off a page.

you nod.

he hesitates for only a second before offering, “you can stay, if you want. no pressure. just… the couch is yours. or - well, my bed. if that’s more comfortable. i can take the couch.”

your heart skips a beat.

you shake your head. “no way you’re sleeping on the couch in your own apartment.”

“i’ve done it before,” he offers with a sheepish smile.

you look at him - really look at him. his hair is a little messy, curling at the ends from the rain. his eyes are soft, waiting for your answer but not demanding one.

“i’ll stay,” you say.

and you both kind of freeze.

spencer smiles first. not a grin, not his charming, public smile - the one he gives people in passing. this is smaller. quieter. real.

“okay,” he says.

he stands to grab you something to sleep in - one of his soft, oversized shirts - and you’re left sitting there under the warmth of the blanket, heart full, mug empty.

you catch your reflection in the darkened window: tousled hair, flushed cheeks, a dreamy little smile you can’t quite hide.

when he returns, you change in the bathroom, fold your clothes into a neat pile, and pad quietly into his bedroom.

it smells like linen and paper and something that can only be described as “spencer.” the bed is neatly made - of course - but he’s already pulled back the corner on your side, a silent welcome.

you slip under the covers, still a little nervous, but spencer’s beside you in seconds, giving you space while staying close enough that you can feel the heat of him. neither of you speaks right away.

eventually, he says, “i like this.”

you turn toward him. “what?”

“this… moment. you, here.”

there’s a pause, and then your hand finds his under the blanket.

you squeeze gently. “i do too.”

and with the rain still whispering outside and his fingers tangled in yours, you fall asleep for the first time in spencer reid’s bed - wrapped in a blanket made of memory and something brand new.

something like love.

oh how i love writing spencer

[thoughtwriter]

part three out now!

multitudes - part 2

summary -> your first pub golf and you meet the one and only arthur tv who is infatuated from the moment he lays eyes on you

PART - 1, 2, 3, 4

wc -> 1.1k

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

the next morning came with a headache, two empty water bottles on your nightstand, and three missed dms. the first was from chris.

chrisMD: you’re a menace. flamingo facts live rent-free. next time: pub quidditch.

the second was a video from max fosh - shaky footage of you and arthur mid-“valerie,” yelling into a pub mic like you were auditioning for a sitcom about two people falling in love via amy winehouse.

and the third… was from arthur.

no text. just a selfie. slightly disheveled hair, duvet pulled up to his chest, sleepy grin. and a message quickly following it - still thinking about cube poop and diet-pink birds. brunch?

your heart betrayed you immediately. it did that weird little stutter - like it forgot how to beat for one full second before coming back with a crash.

you met up that afternoon at a tiny place in notting hill he insisted had “the best hash browns this side of london.” he wasn’t wrong. but if you were being honest, you barely tasted them.

because arthur in the daylight was a different kind of disarming.

gone was the pub-haze version: flushed cheeks, alcohol bravado, and silly commentary. in its place was something quieter - more deliberate. his hair still did that annoyingly perfect floppy thing, and his voice was still soft in that way that made everything he said feel just a bit more important.

he sipped his coffee. “so, still full of weird facts?”

you grinned. “always, it’s a condition. completely incurable.”

“tragic. guess i’ll have to stick around and suffer through it.”

“poor you.”

he laughed. but then he set down his fork and leaned forward, elbows on the table like he was about to confess something. the restaurant noise dulled around you, even though you knew it hadn’t actually changed.

“listen, i meant what i said last night.”

you blinked. that could mean several things.

arthur seemed to sense your uncertainty, so he clarified. “about liking you. before. and now. well, even more now.” he scratched the back of his neck like the words itched coming out. “it’s weird, right? one night and suddenly i can’t stop thinking about you.”

your stomach twisted, but not in a bad way. you just weren’t used to someone saying something like that and meaning it - especially not someone like arthur. smart, emotionally fluent, and possibly half-made of charm.

you could’ve made a joke. deflected. but you didn’t want to. not with him.

“it’s not that weird,” you said. “i’ve been thinking about you too.”

there. out. no take-backs.

arthur looked down at his coffee for a beat. then up at you. his gaze sharpened - focused in that quiet, attentive way he did when he was listening not just to what you said, but how you meant it.

“would it be crazy if i said i wanted to get to know you properly?” he asked. “off-camera. no pub golf. no chaos. just… you.”

you smiled. “only slightly. but I’m not particularly sane either.”

“brilliant,” he said, beaming.

that brunch turned into a walk, which turned into a shared playlist, which somehow turned into you guesting on one of arthur’s videos three weeks later.

it wasn’t planned. at least, not by you.

you were just in the background, originally. sitting off to the side while he filmed a lighthearted reacting to terrible tiktok advice bit. but at some point, he turned the camera toward you and asked, “as a certified facts machine, what’s your opinion on this guy’s take that drinking lemon water cures heartbreak?”

you blinked. the camera was rolling. but more importantly, he was looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

so you said something snarky about citric acid and unresolved emotional trauma. arthur laughed so hard he wheezed.

the comments the next day were brutal in the best way.

randomuser1 - sorry but WHY do they have more chemistry than every netflix couple ever?

randomuser2 - arthur’s in love and we’re all just watching it happen like a nature doc

randomuser3 - if they don’t do a podcast or start dating immediately, i will RIOT.

you tried to ignore them. you really did.

but then arthur sent you a screenshot of one with the caption - let’s give the people what they want?

and that was that.

still, not everyone knew. not yet.

you were careful - meeting late, taking back entrances, always arriving and leaving events separately. it wasn’t that you were hiding. you just… wanted to keep it yours a little longer. before the internet tried to rename it and ship it and pick it apart.

but at another ‘youtube gathering’ - this time a chilled game night at willne’s - you forgot to be subtle.

you were sitting on arthur’s lap, his arms loosely draped around your waist as you quietly roasted him for his uno strategy. willne walked by, did a double take, and yelled, “OH, IT’S HAPPENING!”

everyone looked. phones came out. chris shouted something about being best man at the wedding. niko started filming. you were done for.

arthur just smirked and pressed a kiss to your shoulde, “guess we’re public now.”

later that night, the two of you slipped onto the balcony to breathe. the london skyline sparkled beneath you, the kind of fake-romantic that only works when you’re a bit drunk and deeply infatuated.

arthur leaned against the railing beside you, his knuckles brushing yours.

“you know,” he said softly, “that flamingo fact really did it.”

“you laughed. “you’re never letting that go, are you?”

“never. it was the moment. everyone saw it. even me. i just didn’t know how to admit it yet.”

you turned to face him, your smile slow and full. “and now?”

he stepped closer, closing the distance until there was only the buzz of shared breath between you.

“now i’m all in.”

and then he kissed you - soft and sure and entirely off-camera.

something real.

part three out tmr!!

tags - @wherethezoes-at

[thoughtwriter]

multitudes [part 3] - a. tv

summary -> your first pub golf and you meet the one and only arthur tv who is infatuated from the moment he lays eyes on you | fem!reader x arthur tv

PART 1, 2, 3, 4

wc -> 1.1k

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

you hadn’t even fully shut the car door before your phone buzzed with a twitter notification

ARTHUR TV AND Y/N SPOTTED—CONFIRMED COUPLE?!

and under it, a blurry screenshot of you and arthur on willne’s balcony, mid-kiss, mid-softest-moment-of-your-life.

he looked great, of course. he always did. soft curls. the gentle lean-in. a hand on your waist.

you looked… like someone who had just fallen into something terrifyingly good.

arthur glanced over from the driver’s seat, seeing your expression, “they got us, didn’t they?”

you nodded, screen still glowing.

“we’re a tag now,” you said. “they’ve already named us.”

he groaned dramatically. “oh God, let me guess. ArthuYou? TV-Me? FlamingoPower?”

“TV-Me actually slaps.”

he gave you a mock glare and then smiled. one hand reached over, fingers wrapping around yours, thumb brushing a small, grounding circle on your palm. that had become a habit. his way of checking you were still with him.

“you okay with it?” he asked, voice lower now. sincere.

you were. mostly. but part of you… part of you was scared. not of him - never of him - but of what came next. of how the internet can take something warm and genuine and twist it until it no longer feels like yours.

still, you nodded. because it was true.

“i’d rather them know than pretend you’re not my favorite person.”

arthur’s smile widened into something breathtaking. and for a second, the twitter noise faded.

the first week of public-couple-life was a whirlwind.

suddenly, your comments section wasn’t just “great vid!” or “this made me laugh” - it was:

userone - can’t believe arthur bagged the smartest cutie in the game.

usertwo - their chemistry is illegal.

userthree - god-tier couple. when’s the double q&a???

and arthur? he handled it like he handled most things - quietly amused, sweetly proud, and far too eager to repost memes of the two of you with captions like - shoutout to flamingos for getting me a soulmate.

it should have felt overwhelming.

but it didn’t. not with him.

things weren’t all cameras and compliments, though.

you learned pretty quickly that being loved publicly also came with pressure.

you were on your way to a shoot with chunkz and beta squad—arthur tagging along for moral support (and mostly snacks)—when your phone buzzed with a comment.

funny how they suddenly started dating AFTER getting added to the golf group. convenient.

and then another.

feels like a clout thing. no shade. just saying.

you didn’t reply. you never replied. but arthur saw the look on your face as you locked your phone, and he didn’t let it slide.

“hey,” he said, pulling you gently to the side before you reached the studio. “you don’t have to pretend that doesn’t hurt.”

you exhaled, slow. “i know it’s not true. i do. but there’s a part of me that’s scared they’ll convince you it might be.”

arthur blinked, almost stunned by the suggestion. then he stepped in, both hands on either side of your face, grounding you.

“listen to me,” he said. “i didn’t fall for you because you’re in the scene or because the views are up. i fell for you when you compared yourself to a multi-fact wikipedia rabbit hole and then sang ‘valerie’ like it was a national anthem.”

you snorted, but his eyes were serious.

“this isn’t for the comments. it’s for me. you’re for me. and i’m not going anywhere.”

weeks passed. the two of you made a joint appearance in a sidemen sunday challenge—couples vs friends which got 10 million views in two days. fans started tagging you in every quiz video and fact meme imaginable. arthur even began quietly referring to you as “the smartest person on youtube” in interviews.

your comments? still unhinged. but this time it was stuff like:

can y/n explain black holes while arthur proposes???

my ideal relationship is facts, soft hands, and pub golf flashbacks.

you couldn’t lie. the support was unreal.

but what mattered most weren’t the retweets or thumbnails or couple edits. it was the little things that never made it online: the way Arthur instinctively reached for your hand when you crossed the street. how he always waited until you picked the crisps before finalizing your lunch order. or how, whenever you were filming something nerve-wracking, he’d kiss the back of your hand just before the red light blinked on.

one night, as you lay on his sofa wrapped in one of his hoodies, watching old top gear reruns and arguing about the science of jet propulsion, arthur suddenly went quiet.

you turned, “what?”

he looked at you for a long second before softly speaking, “do you ever think this is it?”

“it?”

“like… the person. the ‘oh-it’s-you’ person.”

the air shifted.

your chest tightened—familiar, but not frightening. just real.

“yeah,” you whispered. “i do.”

arthur smiled, slow and small.

“good. because that’s what i think every time i look at you.”

your next video was a q&a. just the two of you, sprawled on his living room floor with mugs of tea and zero script. it was honest, warm, funny. people loved it.

but the very last question hit different.

“what’s your favorite thing about each other?”

you looked at Arthur. he looked at you.

he answered first.

“y/n makes everything feel like a secret worth keeping. even when it’s not.”

you blinked. you throat tightened. your turn.

“he listens. like, really listens. and he never makes me feel like i’m too much. just… exactly enough.”

the video ended there. no flashy outro. no music.

just a soft cut as arthur leaned over, whispered, “you are exactly enough,” and kissed your temple.

OHHH I LOVED THIS PART

🏷️ @wherethezoes-at

[thoughtwriter]

wait i’m kinda in the writing mood..

I desperately need someone to make a fic where reader is like friends with all those uk YouTubers and they’re are on one of chrismd’s football videos.

Like maybe the filming is taking so long and they’re just waiting and reader suddenly falls asleep on the side of the field

Or maybe they’re so full of banter and they’re all having a great time and making fun of each others football skill.

Like I just need something where the reader is friends with em and there’s like no dating😖🙏

[thoughtwriter]

block block and BLOCK

the AUDACITY to steal peoples work and then say "Why am I getting like no likes or reposts for my work I have done so much"

STOPPPP oh my god thats actually insane work anyways go give @smzyyx so much love

and please block coolestgirlouttherexoxo so they don't steal your work either!!!! and report too <3

[thoughtwriter]

upcoming releases ིྀ

masterlist | requests

my fics that are soon to be released!

-> all pieces on here will be released from within a month of when they were announced june 15th

smut ღ | angst ✩ | fluff 𐙚

GEORGE CLARKE

𐙚 the alchemy (george scores a goal at wembley)

ARTHUR TV

ღ pepsi cola (arthur hears you singing an interesting song)

𐙚 puppy love (animal lover reader) [POSTED]

ARTHUR HILL

𐙚 your song (arthur writes a song that is so clearly about his best friend)

WILLNE

𐙚 + ღ bed chem 1 - 5 (singer reader meets will and loves his accent)

SPENCER REID

𐙚 blanket season (you stay over at spencer’s for the first time) [POSTED]

this post is edited weekly to bi-weekly.

people being written for are subject to change, requests are less likely to be posted here as they happen when I receive them [if you would like your request to appear on this schedule, please stipulate so in your request] ིྀ

[thoughtwriter]

why is the most difficult part of my writing picking a title?? like its never that serious

[thoughtwriter]

i love love loveeee the writing omg

THE SOFTEST THING — WILLNE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

previous part ,, next part

an; sorry for the delay, my exams are starting now so i’ve been revising more

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

You’d been building up to this for weeks — little hints, a cryptic post here, a song teaser there. But now, with your album out and the world starting to react, you knew it was time for the real reveal.

It was late afternoon when you dropped it.

The photo was simple: You and Will, leaning against the hood of a car in the late afternoon sunlight. Both of you smiling — not the polished, curated kind of smile, but one that was a little too real, a little too perfect for the camera.

“it’s out now. and so are we. thank you to everyone who’s been part of this journey — and to you, will, for being the melody i didn’t know i needed. #TheSoftestThing”

You pressed post, set your phone down, and immediately started pacing. Your heart was in your throat.

Will, standing beside you, put his hands on your shoulders and gave you a soft smile. “It’s done,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “You’re good.”

The moment the notification hit that the post was live, it was like the floodgates opened.

user1 wait what is happening right now???

user2 i’m actually screaming. this is too cute. is this for real or am i having a fever dream

user3 OH MY GOD. SHE REALLY DID IT. SHE AND WILL???

user4 i have no words. all i know is we need an album tour, stat!!

user5 track 8. i’m calling it now. this is the heartbreak song of 2025

And just like that, the internet lost its mind. The mix of pure shock, joy, and confusion about your relationship was overwhelming. You even saw a few memes already, ones about Will trying to act all nonchalant while looking like he was about to burst from happiness.

But then, the messages from Joe and Alfie came rolling in.

Joe: it’s real. i’m crying. @/alfie, what did i tell you???

Alfie: i’ve been telling you for months. also, does anyone know where i can find my dignity after being the third wheel on this entire saga?

You laughed, but before you could respond, your phone started ringing. It was Joe.

“Hello?” you answered, holding in your excitement.

“Okay, no more teasing,” Joe said in that all-too-familiar voice. “We’re celebrating tonight. Release party. We’re all there. No arguments. You need to let go for one night, yeah?”

You bit your lip. “But, like, it’s a big deal. I don’t want to make it a—”

“No, you’re making it fun. This is your moment, and you’re dragging me, Alfie, and Will along for the ride whether you like it or not. Come on, we’ll even get fancy drinks.”

You looked over at Will, who raised an eyebrow and gave you a small shrug, his smile crooked. “I mean, if Joe’s going to get fancy drinks…”

The party was chaotic, but in the best possible way.

Joe had pulled some strings and rented out a venue — not too big, not too small, just the right amount of space for friends, family, and a select group of fans who’d gotten invites. Alfie, as always, was the unofficial party planner, running around ensuring there was enough food and no shortage of lighting effects.

You arrived together with Will, walking into the venue hand-in-hand, the room buzzing as people saw the two of you — the first clear confirmation that it was real, that you were finally taking the leap.

Alfie was the first to notice. He grinned wickedly, popping over to you with a drink in hand. “Finally,” he said dramatically. “The worst-kept secret in the UK is out. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you for not ruining my lfie,” you teased, nudging him slightly.

Joe appeared behind him, camera in hand and slapped Will on the back with a loud “Oi, mate!” then pointed the lens at you. “Get over here, both of you. I need a ‘newly official’ picture.”

Will groaned good-naturedly but came over anyway, wrapping an arm around your waist as Joe snapped a few quick shots, Alfie laughing in the background.

The night was filled with dancing, laughing, and a few quiet moments with Will where it was just the two of you, tucked away in the back corner of the room with your own drinks. There were no more nerves — just the steady comfort of being seen by people who truly knew you, both the public and the private parts of your life.

After some time, Joe called everyone to the center, microphone in hand. “Alright, alright,” he shouted. “This is a moment for the best album I’ve ever heard. To Y/N — the legend, the lyricist, the one who broke the internet!”

Everyone cheered, raising their glasses.

You laughed, a little embarrassed, but took the mic from him anyway. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you to everyone who’s supported me, who’s listened, and to Will… for being a real-life song.”

The room went quiet, and Will’s face softened as you turned to him, your hand brushing against his. He winked. “Anytime, love.”

And just like that, your heart wasn’t racing with fear anymore. It was full.