brinasheqrt

[brinasheqrt]

new fic tomorrow!

[brinasheqrt]

hi guys! i’ve decided i’m going to post a fic on here a week in between each one (preferably every wednesday) . that way i can also work on getting a chapter of the wattpad book out at the same time

it feels much more organised that way and i can put more effort into them

love u all so much

[brinasheqrt]

sabrina and reader are at a party/event whatever, and sabrina is constantly presenting reader as "her friend" to people, which pisses reader reader off. (happy ending? you choose/ also love the new theme !!)

Just A Friend

summary - request!

warnings - angst (with happy ending)

wc - 2.5k

You’d been to your fair share of Hollywood parties since starting to date Sabrina Carpenter, but tonight felt different—and not in a good way.

The lights were warm and ambient in the private rooftop bar, the chatter of industry people mixing with the low bass thrum of the DJ. Sabrina looked breathtaking in her champagne silk dress, her hair loosely pinned, tendrils brushing her collarbones. You felt lucky just to be next to her. But luck started to feel a little sour the third time she introduced you as—

“This is Y/N,” she said brightly, flashing her perfect smile at the man in a tailored navy suit. “My friend.”

You froze. Again?

The man, some high-ranking music exec you’d already met once before, barely looked at you before turning back to Sabrina with a knowing smirk. You plastered on a polite grin, but your stomach was already curdling.

Friend.

The word rang hollow. You’d been with Sabrina for six months. You’d spent countless nights tangled in her sheets, tracing constellations on her skin with your fingertips, kissing away the shadows under her eyes after long days. You knew the shape of her laugh, the exact shade of pink her cheeks turned when she cried, the way she reached for your hand in her sleep.

And still—“friend.”

You bit your cheek and stepped aside while she chatted, nodding along to something about Sabrina’s European leg of tour. She didn’t notice your silence.

⸻

An hour later, you were still simmering, sipping on some mocktail you couldn’t even taste. You’d heard it three more times. “Friend.” Once to a stylist you’d both admired on Instagram, once to a girl from her label who openly flirted with her, and once to someone you didn’t even catch the name of.

You weren’t possessive, not really. You didn’t need your relationship paraded around, but this felt like erasure. A quiet humiliation.

Sabrina came up behind you, slid her hand into yours like it was natural. You stiffened.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing a kiss to your bicep. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, voice flat.

She narrowed her eyes. “Y/N…”

You shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just your friend, right?”

Her body stiffened. You turned to face her fully now, her hand sliding out of yours like it burned her.

“What?” she asked carefully.

“I said—” You lowered your voice. “I’m just your friend, right? That’s what you’ve been telling everyone all night.”

She blinked, stunned. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“How else could you mean it?” you asked, stepping back. “Sabrina, we’ve been together for half a year. We sleep in the same bed. I’ve met your sisters. You told me you loved me.”

“I do love you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Y/N, I love you so much.”

“Then why can’t you say it?” you asked, fighting the tremble in your voice. “Why can’t you say I’m your partner? Or your girlfriend? Why am I suddenly demoted to friend when it’s convenient?”

Her lips parted. She looked stunned, wrecked. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I was just… scared.”

“Of what?” you whispered. “Of being seen with me?”

“No!” she said, loud enough to draw a few glances. She dropped her voice. “Never. Y/N, you don’t get it. The second people know, they start pulling apart every piece of it. It becomes theirs. Not mine. Not ours.”

“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “I didn’t ask you to post a soft launch or parade me around on red carpets. But I also didn’t sign up to be your little secret.”

She reached for you, but you stepped back again. You hated the way her face fell.

“I’m going to get some air,” you mumbled. “Don’t follow me.”

You made your way through the crowd, heart pounding, ignoring the way Sabrina’s eyes followed you.

⸻

The rooftop was quieter. Colder. The wind pulled at your clothes, but at least you could breathe out here.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just stared out over the city, gripping the edge of the balcony.

What were you even doing? Pretending you could handle this? Pretending it didn’t hurt when she held your hand in private and hid it in public?

“Y/N.”

You flinched. She’d followed you after all.

Sabrina stepped up beside you, a soft flush of guilt painting her cheeks. She rubbed her arms, like the cold had finally hit her too.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I hurt you. And you’re right. You didn’t sign up for this.”

You didn’t speak. Just stared ahead.

“I’m just scared,” she continued, voice shaky. “Every time I fall in love, it ends in headlines. People dissecting it, mocking it, making up stories. I just wanted to protect what we had for a little longer.”

You turned to look at her. Her eyes were watery, glassy in the soft golden lights.

“So you protected us by pretending we weren’t real?” you asked quietly.

She closed her eyes. “No. I protected me. I’m sorry. I got selfish. I let my fear matter more than your feelings, and that’s not love. That’s cowardice.”

You swallowed hard.

She reached for your hand again—this time, you let her.

“I don’t want to be your secret, Sabrina,” you said. “I want to be yours. All in. Even when it’s messy.”

Her voice cracked. “You are mine. I just… forgot how to be brave.”

You looked at her for a long moment. Then finally—finally—you saw her shift. Her shoulders straightened. She squared herself, like something clicked into place.

She turned back toward the rooftop door, then looked at you. “Come with me?”

You hesitated. Then you nodded.

⸻

Back inside, the lights were still warm, the music still low and pulsing. Sabrina took your hand, intertwining your fingers, and didn’t let go.

She walked up to the same stylist from earlier.

“Hey, this is Y/N,” she said, a flush rising to her cheeks. “My girlfriend.”

The stylist’s eyes widened slightly—but then she grinned. “Oh! I love that. You two look amazing together.”

Sabrina beamed. And then turned to you.

The next person, and the next, and the next—it was the same. “My girlfriend.” “My partner.” “The love of my life.” She said it with pride, and each time, you felt a bit of the anger and ache in your chest melt away.

Eventually, she pulled you back to a quieter corner, her hands slipping around your waist.

“I meant it,” she said. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “I just needed to hear it.”

You kissed her—gentle, grounding. The music faded for a moment, just the warmth of her lips and the thump of your heart in your ears.

She rested her forehead against yours. “Can I take you home?”

“Only if I get to sleep in the girlfriend spot in your bed.”

She laughed, soft and relieved. “It’s always yours.”

[brinasheqrt]

getting a fic out today hopefully x

love u all

[brinasheqrt]

just curious buuut .. what's ur opinion on ai writing?

i’ve always been against AI writing.

it’s not your work so don’t claim it is.

[brinasheqrt]

could u do a fic where brina is feeling self-conscious about herself (due to hate on thr internet) and reader notices and gets a little protective and comforts her? thxx!!

Unfiltered

pairings - sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

warnings - online hate, insecurity, mild body image issues.

wc - 2.6k

an - remember you are beautiful , don’t let anyone tell you differently <3

You weren’t sure when exactly Sabrina stopped laughing at your jokes.

Maybe it was yesterday. Maybe the day before. Or maybe it was subtle—something that had been building in her bones like cold weather moving in unnoticed until suddenly you were caught in a downpour.

What you did know was this: she wasn’t okay.

It started with her phone.

She was glued to it more than usual, thumbs flying over the screen like she was trying to fight a war with words. You caught glimpses—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Her face unreadable. Blank. That was the worst part. Not sadness, not anger. Just… nothing.

You didn’t want to pry, so you gave her space. But by day three, the silence had grown teeth.

She didn’t hum in the kitchen anymore. She didn’t curl up next to you on the couch like she always did, throwing her legs across your lap like they belonged there (which, they did). She didn’t ask for coffee runs or beg you to sing with her in the car.

And that morning, when she came out in an oversized hoodie, hair tied up in a loose bun, makeup-free and avoiding your eyes, something twisted deep in your gut.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said, soft, hopeful.

She gave a thin smile. “Hey.”

But it didn’t reach her eyes. It didn’t even get close.

You decided enough was enough.

⸻

It was later that afternoon when you found her in your shared bedroom, sitting on the floor next to the bed with her back against the wall, knees tucked up to her chest. Her phone was face-down beside her. Her eyes were red.

“Brina?” you asked carefully, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you.

She didn’t look up.

You crossed the room and sat down beside her slowly, knees stretched out in front of you, heart pounding.

“What’s going on, baby?”

Her throat moved like she swallowed something heavy. “Nothing.”

You waited. Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick and choking.

“I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice gentle. “You’ve been quiet all week. You’ve been pulling away from me, from everyone. I know you. And I know when you’re hurting.”

She wiped at her eyes, quick and embarrassed, like crying was something she should apologize for.

“I just…” She hesitated. “I read some stuff online. About me.”

Ah. There it was.

You turned slightly to face her more fully. “What kind of stuff?”

Her lips parted, then closed again like she didn’t want to say it out loud. But then, her voice broke open like glass.

“People saying I’m annoying. Fake. That I’m only successful because I ‘sleep around’ or ‘play the industry’ or ‘use people.’ That I look plastic. That I should stop trying to be sexy because I look like a little girl pretending.”

You stared at her, stunned. Stomach roiling.

“They called me a whore,” she added quietly. “They said I ruined things with other people. That I think I’m better than everyone.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and you moved instantly, pulling her into your arms, cradling the back of her head like she was fragile glass.

“Jesus, Brina,” you whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic,” she mumbled against your chest. “Or insecure. I know I shouldn’t care, I know—people are always going to talk—but…”

“You’re human,” you said, holding her tighter. “Of course you care. And those people are full of shit.”

She gave a shaky exhale but didn’t respond. Your hand found her hair, stroking it gently, trying to ground her.

“I just feel like maybe… maybe they’re right,” she whispered.

Your whole body tensed.

“No, no, no,” you said fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you even think that.”

She looked up at you, eyes shimmering. “What if I am annoying? What if I do come off as fake? What if I’m not actually talented and everyone’s just been nice to me out of pity or because of who I know? What if I don’t deserve any of this?”

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t shout. But your next words came with a sharp edge.

“Look at me, Sabrina.”

She blinked.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“You are one of the most real, genuine people I’ve ever met. You are kind. You are hardworking. You are talented as hell. You pour your soul into your music. Into your performances. Into your fans. You give people something to hold onto when the world is falling apart.”

Her breath hitched.

“And what have you gotten in return?” you continued, eyes burning. “Hate. Misogyny. Judgment for daring to be confident. Or beautiful. Or sexual. Or soft. For existing in the public eye.”

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself.

“They don’t know you. They don’t see you singing under your breath while brushing your teeth. Or how you check on me when I’ve had a rough day even when you’re the one falling apart. They don’t see the nights you stay up rewriting lyrics because they don’t feel authentic enough. Or the way you kiss the top of my head like I’m the safest thing in the world.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time, not from shame.

“I see you,” you whispered. “I see every part of you. The messy ones. The scared ones. The brave ones. I know the weight you carry, and I’d carry it with you every day if it meant you didn’t have to feel like this again.”

Her lip trembled.

“I hate them,” you said quietly. “I hate what they’re doing to you. I wish I could grab every person who’s ever said something cruel and make them say it to your face. I wish I could shield you from all of it.”

She leaned into you fully then, curling into your arms like something small and breakable.

“I hate that I believed them,” she whispered. “Just for a minute. I let them in.”

You held her tighter.

“You’re allowed to feel it,” you said. “But don’t unpack and live there. Please. Come back to me.”

You felt her shoulders start to shake. Silent sobs. Grief, shame, exhaustion—years of it spilling out like she’d finally let the dam break.

You rocked her gently. “I got you,” you murmured over and over. “I got you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You spent the rest of the day wrapped in each other on the bed. No makeup. No mirrors. No phones. Just the safety of your arms and your heartbeat against her cheek.

You made her tea. Lit her favorite candle. Played the album she never let anyone hear yet. She let you. You both cried a little more.

Later, after sunset, when her face had softened and the redness had faded from her eyes, she turned to you and asked, “Why do you love me?”

You smiled sadly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because you’re Sabrina. Because even when you’re breaking, you still look at me like I’m home. Because you never gave up on your voice, even when the world told you to be quieter.”

You kissed her forehead.

“Because the world doesn’t deserve you, but I get to love you anyway.”

A soft breath escaped her lips, and she leaned her head into your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m really lucky you found me,” she whispered.

“No,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m the lucky one.”

⸻

The next day, she posted a picture on Instagram.

No makeup. Hoodie. Teary eyes, soft smile. Caption: “Still standing. Still singing. Still me.”

She didn’t check the comments.

But you did.

And this time, the love drowned out the noise.

Just like you promised it would.

[brinasheqrt]

new theme, do we like?

fic tonight!!! <3

[brinasheqrt]

HELLO OMG?!

[brinasheqrt]

debating whether to change my theme or not

anyways, new fic today!! <3

[brinasheqrt]

NEW ALBUM HELLO???!!!!

[brinasheqrt]

does anyone have any good angst ideas? i really want to get out a angst fic <3

love u all

[brinasheqrt]

hi hope ur doing great!! i have a request, if u dont mind. i was thinking like reader is sabrinas gf and shes watching behind the scenes of the recording of sabrinas new single manchild, and at the end of the day sabrina is super tired and its basically reader comforting her and giving her princess treatment (preferably masc!reader)

My Princess

pairings - sabrina carpenter x masc!reader

warnings - none at all

wc - 2k

You leaned against the sound booth’s glass, arms crossed casually over your chest as you watched Sabrina through the thick pane. She was in her zone—headphones snug over her ears, one hand lifted as she worked through the chorus of her new single ‘Manchild’, voice clear and precise even after hours of takes.

The studio around you buzzed with low murmurs and clacking keyboards. The producers on the other side of the board exchanged quiet nods, impressed. You smirked to yourself, proud but not surprised. She’d been working on this song for months—her take-no-shit anthem wrapped in the kind of pop hook that would have everyone singing it for the next year.

But you could also see the exhaustion beginning to creep into her shoulders.

She pulled off the headphones after another take and dropped onto the couch in the booth, scrubbing her hands over her face. She looked like she was holding it together—just barely.

You straightened up.

“Sabrina,” her producer’s voice crackled through the intercom, “that was great. I think we’ve got the chorus locked in. You want to try that bridge again?”

There was a pause. You could tell she was biting her tongue before she responded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. One more time.”

You hated that tone. The one where she didn’t want to say no because she didn’t want to let anyone down, even when her voice had started to crack a little on the last take.

But she was Sabrina Carpenter—professional, powerhouse, perfectionist. And if she didn’t stop herself, she’d run herself right into the ground trying to make every note flawless.

Still, you waited. She adjusted her headphones again and went in for the bridge. You watched, not just as her girlfriend, but as someone who knew her better than most. The slight tremble in her hand when she reached for the mic again wasn’t lost on you. She powered through, but it was clear—she was nearly done.

The take ended, and her voice sounded more strained now. She blinked hard a few times, like she was trying to stay focused.

You tapped gently on the glass. She looked up and met your eyes through the booth, and you gave her a small smile, tilting your head with a subtle gesture that only meant one thing:

Enough, baby.

She sighed and turned back to the intercom. “I think that’s all I’ve got in me today,” she said, voice polite but final. “Can we pick up here tomorrow?”

The team agreed quickly—respectfully. No one wanted to push her too far. She thanked them all sweetly, even though you could hear the tired edge behind her voice.

When she stepped out of the booth, you were already waiting with a cold water bottle in one hand and your hoodie in the other. She looked small as she walked toward you—makeup smudged from the long hours, golden hair tied in a loose, messy bun, a hint of glitter still on her cheek from earlier content shooting. A popstar in the spotlight, sure—but right now, she was just your girl. And she looked exhausted.

You held the water out first. She took it gratefully, unscrewing the cap and downing half of it in one go.

“Jesus,” she exhaled after, “that bridge is going to kill me.”

“I’ll beat it up for you,” you said, slipping the hoodie over her shoulders. “Where is it? I’ll fight it. Genuinely. I don’t care that it’s just a melody. I have hands.”

That made her laugh, a tired but real sound. She leaned into you and rested her head on your chest as you wrapped your arms around her.

“I like when you threaten inanimate objects for me,” she mumbled into your shirt.

“I’m a romantic,” you replied.

She laughed again, but this time it broke a little, and she went quiet against you. You felt her weight shift as she sagged more into your chest. She was spent.

“Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s get you home.”

⸻

The car ride back was quiet. She leaned against the passenger door with her legs curled toward you, eyes fluttering shut every few seconds. You reached across at a red light and rested a hand on her knee. She placed her hand over yours instinctively, fingers squeezing lightly.

Once home, you carried her bag while she trailed behind you, slowly toeing off her boots at the door. She let out a long, aching sigh, then tilted her head to look at you with those soft, baby blue eyes.

“You’re giving me that look,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The one that says, ‘You’re not allowed to do anything else tonight. You’re officially on pampering duty.’”

You grinned. “Correct.”

She smirked but didn’t argue, just lifted her arms dramatically. “Then carry me, peasant.”

You laughed and bent down to scoop her up bridal-style, making her squeal and wrap her arms around your neck.

“You better not drop me.”

“I’d never drop my princess,” you said, kissing the top of her head.

She hummed in approval and tucked her face into your shoulder.

⸻

You set her down on the couch and immediately went to work. First: fuzzy socks on her tired feet. Then: blanket wrapped tightly around her like a burrito and taking her makeup off. You handed her a warm lavender-scented neck pillow that you microwaved for a minute, which she sighed into like it was the greatest thing she’d ever touched.

“You want tea or cocoa?” you asked, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Cocoa,” she called back. “With oat milk. And those mini marshmallows you hide on the top shelf.”

You chuckled. “You mean the ones I hide from you because you snack on them at 2am?”

“Those are the ones.”

When you came back with a perfectly-prepared mug, she looked like a child in heaven—wrapped up, toasty, curled in the corner of the couch, cheeks flushed with warmth.

“You know,” she said as she took the mug from you, “you really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” you said, kneeling beside her and brushing hair from her face. “But I wanted to.”

She leaned into your hand.

“I just…” She hesitated. “I hate how tired I get. I always feel like I should be stronger. More productive. Better.”

You frowned softly and leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. “You were incredible today. Like, jaw-dropping. Everyone in that studio knew it.”

“But it doesn’t feel like enough,” she whispered, tears starting to rim her lashes. “I write these songs because I feel things, but when I’m drained like this, it makes me wonder if it’s worth it.”

You took the mug from her hands and set it on the table, then climbed onto the couch beside her and pulled her into your lap.

“It’s absolutely worth it, Brina,” you murmured, wrapping your arms tightly around her. “You’re making something beautiful out of your feelings. That’s art. That’s what people connect to. That’s why your music matters.”

She sniffled into your hoodie. “I just wanted ‘Manchild’ to be fun, you know? Like, powerful and cheeky and all those things. But I overthink it. I keep wondering if it’s too mean, or not mean enough, or if I sound annoying…”

“You sound like someone who knows her worth,” you said, stroking her back. “And if a man feels called out by it—maybe he should.”

That got a little giggle out of her. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” you teased, then softened. “But seriously? You can be tired. You are strong. Resting doesn’t take away from that.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth. “Let me take care of you tonight, okay?”

She nodded slowly, her lashes fluttering as she snuggled into you.

“Okay,” she whispered. “You win.”

You leaned back with her in your lap, one hand stroking her thigh through the soft cotton of her sweatpants while the other ran gentle circles over her back.

Eventually, she mumbled, “Can you play with my hair?”

You smiled and obliged, twisting a lock gently around your fingers and combing through it with your nails. Her whole body melted.

“You know what I’m calling this?” you said after a moment.

“What?”

“Princess Treatment Thursday.”

She cracked a sleepy grin. “It’s Saturday.”

“Doesn’t matter. You get princess treatment every day now.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. “I’m holding you to that.”

“I hope you do.”

⸻

A while later, you carried her to bed, changed her into her favorite oversized T-shirt, tucked her in, and climbed in beside her. She curled into your chest immediately, all soft breath and gratitude.

As you held her, she whispered, “Thank you… for seeing me even when I’m too tired to be ‘on.’”

You kissed her forehead, your voice low and sure.

“I always see you, baby. And I’ll always take care of you.”

And that night, as the stress and pressure melted off her body and the warmth of your love wrapped around her like a safety net, Sabrina Carpenter—pop icon, perfectionist, tired girl—finally fell asleep feeling like she didn’t have to be anything except exactly who she was.

Your princess.

[brinasheqrt]

new fic soon guys i promise <3

and i’m currently re writing my wattpad book ‘Almost Love’

love u all <3

[brinasheqrt]

i might re write ‘Almost Love’ so it’s a different story line. some social media and that. would that be okay with you guys?

[brinasheqrt]

hello!

think i can request a little fic of sab and r being super cozy while cooking breakfast together, maybe a little make out sesh?

Strawberry Kisses

pairings - sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

warnings - kissing

wc - 2k

a/n - guys i love this one

The morning light crept gently across the kitchen counters, painting everything in soft gold. Outside, the world was quiet—no honking horns, no buzzing phones, just the rustle of wind against the trees and the low hum of the coffee maker. It was the kind of morning that asked nothing from you except to be enjoyed.

Sabrina padded into the kitchen on bare feet, wearing one of your hoodies that hung past her thighs and sleeves that swallowed her hands. Her hair was still messy from sleep, a soft halo of blonde curls catching the light.

You were already standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with your head tilted toward the music playing quietly from the speaker. Something mellow and acoustic. Something that fit the way your fingers moved lazily across the spatula.

She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, pressing her cheek into the middle of your back, given her five foot figure.

“Mmm,” she mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep. “You smell like syrup and home.”

You smiled, reaching back to place a hand on her hip. “That’s because you are home.”

She let out a soft sigh and nuzzled you closer. “Cheesy.”

“Only for you.”

“You know I secretly love it.”

“I know.”

You turned down the burner and turned to face her. Her eyes were half-lidded, eyelashes still sleepy, but there was already that familiar sparkle there—mischievous, soft, warm. You leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“Did I wake you?” you asked gently.

She shook her head and yawned. “Nah. The smell of pancakes pulled me in like a cartoon character.”

You laughed, the sound low and easy. “That was the goal.”

Sabrina stepped around you and leaned on the counter, watching as you poured more batter into the pan.

“Tell me what to do. I wanna help.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Last time you almost set the toast on fire.”

She squinted. “It was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Fine,” she said, pulling open a drawer. “But this time I’m gonna nail it. What can I do?”

You handed her a bowl and pointed to the strawberries on the cutting board. “Can you slice these?”

“Yes, chef.”

She grabbed a knife and got to work, surprisingly focused. You turned back to the stove but peeked over at her every few seconds. She had her lower lip between her teeth in concentration, her fingers quick and steady.

“You’re doing good,” you said.

She smiled proudly. “Told you. I’m evolving.”

You plated the pancakes while she arranged the strawberries on top with way more precision than necessary. Her tongue poked out just a little, and you fought the urge to kiss it away.

“Presentation is everything,” she said, stepping back to admire her work.

“You’re beautiful,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was.

She blushed and looked down, but then her eyes flicked back up to yours.

“Don’t think flattery’s gonna get you out of doing the dishes later.” She mumbled.

“Worth a shot.”

She giggled and stepped closer, her hands sliding around your waist again. The scent of warm pancakes and cinnamon filled the air, but it was the closeness of her that made your chest feel full.

“You look good like this,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Hair messy, sleeves rolled up, doing cute domestic things.”

You smirked. “You like the domestic side of me?”

“Very much.”

You leaned down slowly, savoring the way her breath hitched. She was close—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“I like you in my hoodie.”

Her hands gripped the fabric where it hung loose on her thighs. “Oh yeah?”

You kissed her. Soft at first. Just the press of lips, familiar and slow and unhurried. But when her hands slid up your back and pulled you in tighter, it deepened without effort.

You tilted your head and kissed her again—longer this time. Her lips moved against yours like she already knew the rhythm, like you’d been doing this for years. She tasted faintly like the strawberry she stole a minute ago, and you couldn’t help the way your hands slid down to her waist, anchoring her there.

She let out a tiny sound against your mouth, a hum of contentment or maybe need. You weren’t sure, but it sent warmth shooting down your spine.

You broke the kiss just enough to murmur, “Do we need to eat first?”

She shook her head and pressed her forehead against yours. “Let the pancakes get cold.”

You smiled and kissed her again—deeper now, slower. One of your hands came up to her cheek, fingers brushing the soft curve of her jaw. Her own hand fisted lightly in your shirt, keeping you close like she couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.

You backed up blindly until the counter hit your hips. Sabrina followed you, body pressed against yours, one thigh sliding between your legs as she melted into you.

Your kisses turned lazy again—gentler now, as if neither of you wanted to rush. Like the morning could stretch forever.

Her fingers found the hem of your shirt and toyed with it. You shivered slightly at the touch, and she smiled against your lips.

“You’re warm,” she whispered.

“So are you.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the side of her jaw. She tilted her head, giving you space, sighing like you were pouring sunlight straight into her veins.

Eventually, she pulled back just a little, her lips pink and glossy from kissing.

“We should eat before we forget,” she said, voice hoarse and happy.

“Only if you promise more of that after.”

She smirked. “Deal.”

You both turned back to the table, still grinning like idiots in love. The pancakes had cooled a little, but the strawberries still glistened, and the whipped cream swirl Sabrina had added (with artistic flair) was perfectly intact.

She poured two mugs of coffee while you grabbed the syrup, and the two of you settled in like it was the most normal thing in the world—eating breakfast, legs brushing under the table, stealing bites from each other’s plates.

Every now and then, her foot would slide up your shin playfully, or she’d sneak a kiss across the table just because she could.

“God, I love mornings with you,” she said, mouth full of pancake.

You reached across and squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

And as the sun climbed higher and bathed the kitchen in honeyed light, you both lingered over breakfast, hands tangled, hearts full—content to let the world spin quietly on without you.

Because in that moment, with strawberry syrup kisses and soft touches and sleepy smiles, you already had everything you needed.

[brinasheqrt]

first chapter of my wattpad book out <3 if anyone has any angst dic ideas for me to do on here, that would be great <3