#this is probs the most pure relationship in all of sorh

[panticwritten]

Writing prompt: “What’s with the pigtails?” Any characters you want.

Hey, thanks for the ask! This took awhile, so I made it happy and at least sort of cute. This almost went to a very different place than it ended up.

Once I actually sat down and wrote this (then figured out what direction to send it in), this was super fun to write. This takes place in the Sequence of Regrettable Happenings universe, about a year and a half after the scene with Kane and the burns.

In this universe, Connor isn’t aware of the Cube or the fact that none of it is real (like he normally is in the other universes), so he’s just a huge dork on his own time.

I don’t write enough happy things with me and Connor. I should do that more often.

Word Count: 612

“What’s with the pigtails?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, hand immediately flying to the make-up bag on the counter. Before I can do anything hasty, like pull a knife from the bag, I catch sight of Connor in the mirror. He watches me from the bathroom door, sandy hair mussed and a cup of coffee in his hands. I mask my sudden motion by bracing myself against the counter instead.

What is he still doing here?

“God, you scared me.” I swallow and give my head a shake. “I thought you left.”

He snorts. “Without telling you? Nah.” He grins, such a boyish thing, and slinks through the door. “I don’t have anywhere better to be.”

I straighten up and return to my preparations for the night to come. I watch him in the mirror until he leans against the wall beside me, nearly out of sight but not out of mind. I can’t keep a smile from quirking my lips, though I don’t try all that hard.

“So,” he prompts. Cloying fingers ghost through the bunch of hair to my left. “Pigtails?”

I spare him a glance, and he retracts his hand. He seems to take it as a reproval. I’m glad he can’t see m struggle between honesty and kindness.

An interested party wants dirt on a visiting dignitary. Thanks to Kane—who you also don’t know about—I get to be a waitress in a low-town dive.

“Work,” I say, finally. “I’ll fit right in, trust me.”

“You never told me what you do.”

I panic.

“You never asked.”

Damn it.

He sets his mug on the counter, and I finally turn to regard him. He doesn’t seem fazed, not by my dodge or by my poorly feigned forgetfulness. One eyebrow cocked in a challenge, he crosses his arms.

“It’s funny you say that, ‘cause,” he begins, scratching his jaw. “I seem to recall asking last night, Mx. Perry, before you distracted me.”

“You are very easily distracted, Mr. Sawyer,” I reply with a serious nod. I lift his mug from the counter and take a drink. “That’s not my fault.”

He laughs but makes no motion to take the drink from me. “I thought you didn’t like coffee.”

“I don’t,” I agree, replacing the mug on the counter. “But I’ll need the caffeine later.”

“You really won’t tell me?” He steps closer, reaching out to trail a finger along my jaw. “Not even a hint?”

After all this time, something deep inside still screams at me to move away, but I don’t. This miracle man hasn’t hurt me yet, and I’m starting to think he isn’t planning to. Instead, I step closer and let him angle my head back.

I never used to like eye contact before.

“Connor Sawyer, are you trying to make me late for work?” I breathe, a mock accusation. He grins and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“If you’d let me, always.”